.V.  • 


MISTRESS  JOY 


MISTRESS  JOY 

A    TALE    OF  NATCHEZ 
IN 


BY 

GRACE(MAcGOWAN)COOKE 

AND 

ANNIE  BOOTH  McKINNEY 


NEW  YORK 

THE   CENTURY  CO. 
1901 


PS 


0  S 
M  5" 


Copyright,  1901,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


TO   THAT  CHURCH   IN  AMERICA  WHOSE   FOUNDATION  STONES 

WERE  LAID  IN  THE   SOUTHERN  WILDERNESSES   OF 

OUR  COUNTRY  BY   MANY  SUCH   LITTLE  BANDS 

AS  THAT   OF   MISTRESS   JOY'S 

FATHER  TOBIAS 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


MADEMOISELLE  JOYCE  VALENTINE       ....    Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

GOING  TO  CHURCH 42 


"A  LITTLE  TO  THE  LEFT,  PRAY,  MISTRESS  JOY"     .     .  130 
"MISTRESS  JOY  LEADING  HER  TRAIN  OF  BEAUTIES"  .  258 

"  SISTER  LONGANECKER  GALLOPING  BUOYANTLY  UP,  A 
GOOSE  UNDER  EACH  ARM  " 338 

"DOWN  THE  DIM  AISLE  OF  THE  WOOD  BEYOND  CAME 
DAVID'S  TALL  FIGURE  " 366 


THE  WILDERNESS 


MISTRESS  JOY 


PROLOGUE 

"With  Fate  for  oarsman,  our  lives  do  cross 
some  devious  waves  of  Time  in  company." 

TGHT  was  falling.  To  those  in  a 
canoe  which  slipped  stealthily  with  the 
river  toward  the  open,  the  hour  and 
the  scene  held  something  sinister. 
But  the  three  felt  and  expressed  it 
differently. 

"Dorothea  has  fallen  from  grace 
again,  father." 

The  lips  which  uttered  this  solemn  accusation  were 
those  of  a  little  maid,  a  girl  of  seven.  Her  gray  eyes 
were  stockaded  with  a  battlement  of  wondrous  lashes, 
which  threw  a  dusk,  unchildish  shadow  on  the  childish 
face.  She  looked  from  the  rag  doll  in  her  lap,  whose 
derelictions  she  thus  gravely  announced,  off  to  the  wes 
tering  sun,  where  it  lay,  a  great  hot  eye,  close  to  the 
earth.  It  glared  upon  them,  red  and  menacing,  and 
painted  the  way  with  unnamed,  formless  terrors. 

The  horizon  was  a  black  line  drawn  across  low 
marshes,  past  which  the  mighty  Mississippi  wallowed 
in  sinuous  sluggishness,  like  some  huge  reptile  uncoil 
ing  lazily. 

The  man  at  the  prow,  slender  to  thinness,  a  little 
stooped,  his  dark  flannel  shirt  open  at  the  neck,  and  a 


4  MISTRESS  JOY 

big-brimmed  hat  shading  the  sharp-featured  face  of  an 
ascetic,  stared  straight  ahead.  He  appeared  to  be  fifty, 
and  was  forty.  The  hands,  resting  on  either  side  of 
the  frail  boat  which  moved,  a  helpless  speck  upon  the 
broad  bosom  of  the  Father  of  Waters,  were  horny — 
the  hands  of  one  inured  to  toil ;  his  eyes,  gray  like 
the  child's,  were  speculative,  mystical — the  eyes  of  a 
dreamer,  an  idealist.  Hers  held  the  germ  of  a  restless 
passion,  the  inquisitorial  look  of  the  worker,  one  who 
would  be  an  arbiter  of  destiny. 

Behind,  immovable,  inscrutable,  crouched  the  In 
dian,  his  face  down-bent,  his  form,  despite  the  atti 
tude  of  repose,  lithe  with  the  power  of  a  reserve  force 
ready  to  leap  forth  at  demand.  Without  change  of 
posture  or  glance,  he  gave,  in  response  to  the  child's 
words,  a  guttural  "Ugh!" 

But  the  father  turned  gentle,  kindly  eyes  upon  her 
and  the  rag  degenerate  at  her  side,  and,  with  a  consol 
atory  pat  upon  the  shoulder  nearest  him,  said  dreamily : 
"Yes,  little  Joy,  't  will  all  be  right.  'T  will  come  right, 
little  daughter." 

A  look  of  impatience,  almost  anger,  flashed  momen 
tarily  in  the  black-lashed  eyes.  "How  can  it  be  right 
'thout  she  repents,  Father  Tobias?  An'  she  is  very 
stubborn."  But  the  man  had  again  turned  to  the  dark 
ening  stream  and  the  level  waste  which  stretched,  un 
known,  illimitable,  to  the  south. 

The  water,  sullen,  slothful,  seemed  scarce  to  move. 
It  was  as  if  all  the  glue  that  could  be  found  in  all 
the  world  had  been  unbottled  and  emptied  into  its 
channel,  so  dark,  so  slow,  so  difficult  was  the  river 
which  yet  bore  resistlessly  on  to  the  unknown. 

Sedge-grass  grew  in  colorless  fringe  at  the  water's 
edge.  Cranes  stood,  gaunt  and  gray,  among  the  reeds. 
Bats,  like  uneasy  spirits,  zigzagged  against  the  crimson 
west,  then  dipped  to  the  muddy  stream  with  a  whir 


MISTRESS   JOY  5 

of  featherless  wings  that  sounded  ominous  on  the  even 
ing  peace.  The  silence  was  stirred,  broken  by  the 
harsh,  remittent  croak  of  numberless  frogs,  which  gave 
their  concert  in  honor  of  the  coming  spring  night. 

And  at  the  boat's  end  a  man  still  looked  toward  the 
nearing  south.  A  child,  a  glint  of  sunset  radiance  im 
prisoned  in  her  deep  eyes,  busied  herself  with  motherly 
cares.  An  Indian  crouched,  unseeing,  yet  vigilant. 
The  river  lapped,  swayed,  writhed,  sluggish  but  sure. 
And  night  settled  down  on  the  strangers  in  a  far 
country. 


CHAPTER   I 

was  a  low,  sullen  sky,  which  hesitated 
darkly  between  a  promise  of  more  rain 
and  a  threat  of  snow.    The  roads  were 
unspeakable.     The   black,    sticky   soil, 
soaked   by  weeks   of   rain,   clung  to 
foot   or   wheel    with   rubber-like   te 
nacity. 

Six  miles  south,  along  the  river  front,  a  cluster  of 
hills  marked  the  site  of  Natchez.  Perched  on  a  high 
bluff,  overlooking  the  silent  river  under  the  low-hung 
clouds,  was  a  tiny  cottage,  with  brilliantly  firelit  win 
dows,  which  outward  promise  of  comfort  was  well  ful 
filled  by  its  interior.  The  spacious  chimney-place 
held  a  roaring  fire  of  great  hickory  logs.  By  this 
bright,  shaken  light  an  old  man  was  bending  his  gray 
head  over  some  books  on  a  table. 

A  tall,  lithe  young  girl,  with  a  book  propped  open 
before  her,  was  shelling  corn,  and  incidentally  feeding 
a  pet  or  invalid  chicken  in  a  basket  at  her  side.  Her 
face  was  thoughtful,  but  with  great  possibilities  of 
mirth  in  it,  and  occasionally  she  paused  in  the  busy 
work  of  fingers,  eyes,  and  mind  to  toss  back  her  bright, 
rebellious  hair,  speak  a  comforting  word  to  the  fowl, 
mend  the  fire  if  it  lagged  a  bit,  or  ask  some  question 
of  the  old  man. 

The  third  figure  by  the  cheery  fireplace,  so  impas 
sive  that  it  might  have  been  taken  for  a  part  of  the 
smoked  and  time-stained  furniture  of  the  little  cottage, 

6 


MISTRESS  JOY  7 

was  that  of  a  tall  old  Indian;  his  slender,  supple  fin 
gers  had  been  busy  polishing  a  deer-horn  handle  for  a 
hunting-knife,  but  now  they  were  folded  over  the  work 
in  his  lap,  and  he  sat  gazing  quietly  into  the  fire. 

Here  were  the  three  voyagers  of  twelve  years  before, 
in  port.  How  comfortable  a  port,  how  safe,  secure 
and  desirable  it  appeared  to  the  wistful  eyes  of  the  man 
who  stood  outside  the  window  of  the  little  cottage  that 
dull  autumn  evening  and  gazed  hungrily  in ! 

He  had  come  through  the  town  and  plodded  over  the 
little  Methodist  settlement  near  by,  pausing  now  and 
then  at  some  door,  putting  forth  his  hand  to  knock, 
then  snatching  it  back  with  a  gasp  when  he  realized 
that  he  was  entirely  in  rags  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  without  one  penny  in  his  pocket.  His  sorry  shoes, 
of  patrician  cut  and  fine  Spanish  leather,  were  broken 
and  almost  dropping  from  his  feet.  As  he  looked  in 
he  shivered,  and  his  teeth  came  together  with  a  rattle. 

He  got  the  graceful  outline  of  the  girl's  shining  head 
against  a  background  of  shadow.  While  he  gazed,  her 
lips  parted,  and  she  began  to  sing  in  a  sort  of  under 
tone,  but  very  sweetly : 

"  Return,  O  wanderer,  return, 

And  wipe  away  the  falling  tear ; 
'T  is  God  who  says  no  longer  mourn ; 
'T  is  Mercy's  voice  invites  thee  near." 

The  words  were  those  of  a  hymn  quite  unknown  to 
the  watcher  without,  but  the  mention  of  the  wanderer 
and  home  brought  tears  of  self-pity  to  his  eyes. 

The  old  man  at  the  table  lifted  his  gray  head  smil 
ingly  and  joined  a  clear,  sweet  tenor  with  her  fresh, 
young  tones.  Something  in  the  man's  benevolent 
countenance  emboldened  the  wayfarer  to  knock. 

When  Joy  opened  the  door  upon  the  dripping  figure 


8  MISTRESS  JOY 

her  father,  calling  from  within,  gave  the  invitation  to 
enter. 

"Good  evening,"  said  the  stranger,  removing  his 
limp  hat  and  showing  a  thin,  haggard,  handsome  face. 
"I  believe  I  have  lost  my  way.  Might  I  beg  your  hos 
pitality  until  I  dry  my  garments  somewhat?" 

"Enter  freely,  friend,"  returned  the  old  man,  sim 
ply.  "There  is  no  inn  nearer  than  Natchez — you 
were  seeking  an  inn,  no  doubt?"  (The  other  smiled  in 
grim,  covert  amusement.)  "If  you  are  willing  to  put 
up  with  our  humble  cheer,  you  are  indeed  welcome." 

The  newcomer  thanked  him  briefly,  almost  haught 
ily,  a  manner  in  somewhat  broad  contrast  to  his  attire 
and  condition. 

"We  supped  some  time  since,"  suggested  Mistress 
Joyce.  "Shall  I  not  brew  you  a  dish  of  tea,  and  set 
you  out  some  meat  and  bread  ?" 

Who  but  the  spendthrift,  come  to  that  first  time 
when  he  cannot  fling  largess  abroad,  but  must  accept 
the  charity  of  those  beneath  him — the  humble  and 
thrifty  poor — knows  the  sullen  distaste  for  this  simple 
kindliness  which  rose  in  the  man's  breast,  and  bade 
him  answer  brusquely:  "Anything  will  do;  I  dined 
late." 

Mistress  Joyce,  behind  the  stranger's  head,  made  a 
little  grimace,  and  shaped  her  pretty  mouth  into  an 
interrogative  "Oh?" 

Her  father  smiled  indulgently.  He  could  never  re 
prove  Joy's  light-mindedness  as  he  felt  he  ought.  The 
meal  was  set  forth,  and  eaten  almost  in  silence.  When 
it  was  finished,  "Draw  up  to  the  fire,"  invited  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house.  "You  will  abide  with  us  to-night, 
I  'm  thinking.  Hark !"  He  lifted  his  hand,  and  they 
heard  the  first  heavy  downpour  of  rain. 

"Rains  it  this  way  oft  here?"  asked  the  man.  "I 
suppose  I  should  be  grateful  for  any  shelter  from  a 


MISTRESS  JOY  9 

storm  like  that."  And  then,  as  his  gentle  breeding  got 
the  better  of  his  black  humor,  he  added :  "I  thank  you, 
sir,  and  you,  mistress,  for  your  kind  hospitality  to  a 
stranger  whose  appearance  must  certainly  ill  commend 
him." 

"Nay,"  protested  the  elder,  gently.  "Matters  of 
apparel  and  such-like  be  of  the  world,  my  child,  and 
we  do  not  judge  as  the  world  judges.  God  knows  the 
heart,  and  God,  not  man,  knows  who  is  worthy." 

And  again  that  sarcastic  smile  played  over  the 
other's  face.  "God  sees  the  heart,  does  he,  mine  host? 
Well  then,  faith,  God  sees  some  very  sorry  things." 
He  looked  at  the  old  man's  long,  black  coat,  which  re 
sembled  the  cassock  of  a  priest ;  at  the  clear,  gray  eyes, 
dome-like  forehead,  and  silver  hair,  showing  already 
the  tonsure  of  age. 

"I  judge,  sir,  you  are  a  preacher,  belike  a  Dissen 
ter,  a — a — "  he  searched  for  a  word — "this  new  sect 
of  which  I  heard  mention  in  the  village." 

"A  Methodist,"  supplied  the  host.  "I  am  Tobias 
Valentine,  a  humble  servant  of  God,  the  pastor  of  a 
little  flock  of  the  faithful  here  in  the  wilderness,  and 
glad  to  be  of  service  to  you  if  I  may,  sir.  This  is  my 
daughter,  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine." 

His  glance  inquired  the  stranger's  name,  and,  after 
some  halting,  the  man  volunteered,  "I  am  generally 
called  Jessop.  I — I — have  a  name  or  two  besides — 
one  way  or  another.  But  I  hold  that  a  man  who  hath 
not  two  coats  should  scarce  be  so  pretentious  as  to  wear 
two  names.  Jessop  will  answer,"  and  he  fell  to  brood 
ing,  his  dark  eyes  fixed  on  the  coals. 

Joy  picked  up  her  corn-basket  with  her  fingers ;  then 
she  picked  up  her  father's  wandering  attention  with 
her  eyes,  and  took  both  into  the  little  lean-to  kitchen. 
When  they  were  out  of  the  newcomer's  hearing,  "Are 
you  going  to  keep  him?"  she  whispered,  nodding  her 


io  MISTRESS  JOY 

head  toward  the  half-seen  profile  of  the  stranger  in  the 
room  back  of  them. 

"I  have  asked  him  to  stay,  Joyce,"  said  her  father. 
"No  man  knows  when  he  may  entertain  an  angel  un 
awares." 

Joyce  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "An  angel !"  she 
echoed,  with  a  little  half-smothered  laugh.  "He  looks 
an  angel !  Father  Tobias,  that  is  exactly  what  you 
said  when  you  would  take  in  the  little  Frenchman  who 
stole  the  last  one  of  the  silver  spoons." 

"Nay,"  rebuked  her  father,  "judge  not,  Joy.  'T  is 
true  the  spoon  was  gone,  but  thou  didst  not  see  him 
take  it ;  perchance  some  other  needy  soul  filched  it  when 
thou  wert  from  the  cabin." 

Joy  caught  the  lapels  of  her  father's  coat,  and  kissed 
him  vehemently.  Her  sole  reply  was,  "O  Father  Toby, 
how  I  do  love  you !" 

When  Master  Valentine  went  back  into  the  room,  he 
courteously  refrained  from  reading,  lest  the  stranger 
should  feel  himself  neglected.  But  he  might  have 
spared  his  anxiety,  for  Jessop  sat  one  full  half-hour 
glowering  into  the  fire  and  uttered  never  a  word.  Only 
the  patter  of  the  dropping  corn — Mistress  Joy  had  re 
sumed  her  corn-shelling — the  sleepy  note  of  the  chicken 
in  the  basket,  and  the  crackle  of  the  fire  infringed  upon 
the  stillness. 

Finally,  "Are  there  many  men  of  substance  in  this 
community?"  Jessop  inquired  abruptly. 

"Mine  own  people,"  returned  Pastor  Valentine,  "are 
all  thrifty,  and  we  have  absolutely  no  paupers,  for  we 
all  work." 

Jessop's  uneasy  pride  flared  up  at  this  last  clause, 
and  he  glanced  about  him  haughtily. 

"Concerning  men  of  the  class  to  which  I  take  it  you 
allude,"  continued  the  other,  "there  are  Colonel  Minor 
of  Rose  Alley,  General  Shields  of  Oakland,  Daniel  Bur- 


MISTRESS  JOY  n 

nett,  Jonathan  Barnes,  and  Judge  Bruin  of  Bayou 
Pierre.  Judge  Bruin  is  our  nearest  neighbor ;  his  place 
is  a  mile  to  the  north  of  us,  on  the  river  front." 

"A  mile,"  growled  Jessop,  "over  these  infernal 
roads !  'T  is  equal  to  ten  anywhere  in  God's  country." 

"  'Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God 
in  vain.'     'The  earth  is  his,  and  the  fullness  thereof/  ' 
chimed  the  preacher's  clear  voice,  reprovingly. 

"Humph!"  returned  Jessop.  "When  't  is  such  earth 
as  this" — turning  up  the  broken  sole  of  one  pitiful  shoe 
— "I  'd  far  rather  't  were  His  than  mine." 

"Young  sir,"  said  the  preacher,  after  a  pause,  "all 
strangers  and  wayfarers  are  kindly  entreated  in  this 
house,  but  while  they  are  in  it  they  must  respect  its 
ways.  I  am  a  preacher  of  God's  word,  and  I  do  not 
like  to  hear  any  man  take  the  name  of  God  lightly 
upon  his  lips.  'T  is  now  our  hour  for  evening  prayer. 
Will  you  join  us?" 

Jessop  said  neither  yea  nor  nay.  He  chose  to  fancy 
himself  affronted,  and  strove  not  to  listen  when  his 
host  began  reading  the  story  of  the  Prodigal. 

Gentle  Pastor  Valentine !  But  for  the  man's  defiant 
attitude,  his  heart  had  almost  failed  him  to  read  such 
a  story  to  this  poor  prodigal.  The  old  man's  voice  had 
the  heart-searching  violin  quality;  these  words  of  the 
Book  were  so  familiar  to  him  that  he  could  have  read 
them  with  closed  quite  as  well  as  with  open  eyes,  and 
no  actor's  training  could  have  given  greater  power  to 
the  passage  describing  the  degradation  of  the  prodigal 
and  his  return  to  the  father's  love,  than  did  the  into 
nations  of  this  simple  preacher  of  a  primitive  faith. 

It  was  as  if  the  scene  were  actually  present  to  those 
in  the  little  cabin.  They  saw  the  father  running  for 
ward  to  greet  his  returned  son,  and  felt  all  the  joy  and 
blessedness  of  the  conclusion. 

It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  Jessop's  face  was  turned 


12  MISTRESS  JOY 

away  from  the  others.  To  his  own  immense  surprise, 
he  found  himself  following  the  words  as  though  they 
were  uttered  to  him,  and  to  him  alone.  As  the  father 
of  the  prodigal  ran  forward  to  welcome  his  son,  there 
arose  before  the  mind  of  the  prodigal  sitting  there  the 
face  of  the  stern  old  man  whose  heart  he  knew  he  had 
broken,  and  whose  name  he  had  disgraced. 

"  'When  he  was  yet  a  long  way  off,'  "  pursued  the 
melodious  voice,  "  'a  long  way  off — '  '  So  far  away ! 
The  tears  stung  under  Jessop's  eyelids,  and  he  resented 
them.  He  was  angry  with  himself,  his  host,  the  Book, 
and  the  story.  He  arose,  pushing  back  his  chair  nois 
ily.  "In  the  name  of  the  Lord,  amen!"  he  cried. 
"Have  you  done  your  reading,  my  good  sir?  I  am 
tired,  and  would  to  bed.  I  believe  I  have  been  dozing 
here." 

Pastor  Valentine  looked  at  him  without  resentment. 
He  was  too  old  a  fisher  of  men  not  to  recognize  one 
of  those  strenuous  battling  souls  which  fight  against 
their  own  salvation.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  re 
sponded  gently;  "you  must  indeed  be  weary,  having 
come  so  far."  (Again  Jessop's  teeth  ground  at  the 
"so  far.")  "Joy,  is  the  room  prepared?  Will  you 
give  the  gentleman  a  light  ?" 

When  the  stranger  had  gone,  with  salutations  too 
elaborate  to  be  sincere,  into  the  small  side  room  set 
apart  for  guests,  and  her  father  and  Manteo  had 
climbed  the  ladder-like  stairway  to  their  loft  rooms 
above,  Joyce  set  forth  her  own  couch  in  the  midst  of 
her  household  cares.  It  was  a  snowy  little  bed,  which 
by  day  folded  itself  up  and  masqueraded  as  a  chest. 
She  was  a  good  housewife,  this  slender,  impetuous, 
deer-like  creature,  and  she  stepped,  with  a  serene  face, 
lightly  about  the  room,  attending  to  the  many  details 
of  a  housewife's  nightly  duties.  As  she  went  to  the 
hearth  to  rake  the  fire  together  and  cover  it,  that  it 
might  keep  until  morning,  she  caught  sight  of  the 


MISTRESS  JOY  13 

man's  handkerchief  lying,  a  crumpled  heap,  on  the 
broad  hearth-stone.  She  picked  it  up,  and,  sitting 
down  in  the  chair  that  he  had  occupied,  smoothed  it 
across  her  knee.  It  was  old  and  tattered,  but  very 
fine.  Joy  had  never  had  so  fine  a  piece  of  linen  in 
her  fingers  before.  There  was  a  wisp  of  beautiful 
lace  clinging  to  one  side  of  it,  and  a  cipher  embroidered 
in  the  corner. 

She  eyed  it  thoughtfully  and  somewhat  wistfully. 
Everything  beautiful  and  fine  appealed  to  Joy,  and  set 
her  dreaming  of  people  who  wore  rich  clothing  and 
carried  handkerchiefs  such  as  this  one  had  been  in  its 
youth.  Her  mind  wandered  off  to  her  father.  How 
kind  and  gentle  he  had  been  with  the  surly  owner  of 
this  bit  of  cambric — quite  too  gentle,  Joy  thought. 
She  shut  her  curved  red  lips,  straightened  them  into  a 
severe  line,  and  tossed  up  her  pretty  chin  aggressively. 
She  would  have  told  him  what  was  what,  when  he 
began  with  his  braggart  airs.  But  Father  Tobias  was 
always  so.  His  patience  was  as  illimitable  as  the  sea, 
and  he  loved  all  sinners,  whether  they  were  repentant 
or  no. 

Joy's  zeal  was  of  that  fiery  order  which  would  fain 
have  pommeled  the  unrepentant  into  salvation,  and  she 
had  all  a  young  enthusiast's  objection  to  waiting 
while  a  sick  and  feeble  soul  learned  to  choose  the  right, 
rather  than  have  the  right  thrust  upon  it. 

"Ah,"  she  thought,  sighingly,  as  she  pushed  aside 
the  curtain  and  looked  out  upon  the  rain-washed  night, 
"Father  Tobias  must  be  right;  it  always  proves  so  in 
the  end.  'His  ways  are  not  our  ways.' ' 

Then  she  knelt  beside  the  little  white  bed,  and  prayed 
earnestly  and  long  for  the  soul  of  the  stranger  who 
had  called  himself  Jessop,  adding  a  fervent  petition  for 
patience  and  grace  to  bear  with  the  failings  of  others, 
remembering  that  she  herself  was  an  imperfect  and  a 
sinful  creature. 


CHAPTER  II 


OY  had  risen  in  one  of  her  periodic 
furies  of  house-cle'aning.  It  was  now 
four  days  since  the  stranger's  advent. 
At  last  the  grace  for  which  she  prayed 
had  been  given  her.  But  the  new 
comer's  failings,  his  lumpish  indo 
lence,  his  neglect  to  mention  any  day 
for  departure  or  state  any  reason  for  his  remaining, 
stretched  woefully  thin  the  garment  of  charity  in  which 
she  would  have  clothed  him.  It  frayed  at  the  seams  of 
patience,  though  often  patched  with  new  faith. 

Poor  Joy!  Since  she  was  a  slim,  eager,  energetic 
girl  of  twelve  she  had  been  practical  head  of  this 
strangely  assorted  little  household  in  the  wilderness. 
Manteo  was  a  warrior,  and  a  warrior  does  not  work. 
He  fished  and  hunted.  Their  table  was  never  without 
meat.  The  Society  gave  them  a  tithe  of  grain  and  cot 
ton.  Joy  spun  and  wove,  baked  and  brewed,  and  she 
kept  her  small  house  in  speckless  order.  Her  ambi 
tion  reached  forward  to  the  time  when  she,  too,  should 
be  a  preacher  of  the  Word.  Now,  her  zeal  found  ex 
pression  in  the  practical  details  of  her  housekeeping, 
the  caring  for  Father  Tobias,  whose  absent-minded, 
impractical,  unworldly  bent  called  daily  for  more  of 
her  energy  to  supplement  his  labors. 

Jessop  sat  by  the  fire.  It  was  a  raw,  bleak  morning, 
with  an  unfriendly  wind  abroad,  under  a  dull  gray  sky. 

14 


MISTRESS  JOY  15 

As  Joy  clattered  in,  with  an  apronful  of  chips,  "Close 
the  door,  I  pray  you,  Mistress  Joyce,"  he  called  queru 
lously,  over  his  shoulder.  "Do  you  never  have  any 
sunshine  in  this  country  of  yours?" 

Joyce  knelt  on  the  hearth-stone,  and  placed  her  chips 
with  great  precision.  She  was  fighting  for  self-mas 
tery  again.  "We  have  sunshine  when  we  are  worthy 
of  it,  perhaps,"  she  answered  finally. 

"And  at  that  rate,"  suggested  her  guest,  with  a  jar 
ring  laugh,  "I  should  go  the  rest  of  my  ways  in  the 
dark,  eh,  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine?" 

Joy's  patience  gave  way  with  a  little  snap.  "You 
know  best  what  your  merits  are,"  she  returned  tartly. 
"Move  your  foot,  pray;  I  would  set  my  oven  there, 
and,  in  any  case,  you  will  burn  your  shoe." 

"I  can  ill  afford  that,"  scoffed  Jessop,  "seeing  there 
is  but  little  shoe  left  to  burn." 

Joy  arose  swiftly,  and  set  out  her  spinning-wheel. 
Up  the  steep  path  came  the  Indian,  carrying  a  string 
of  fish.  He  reached  forth  his  hand,  and  with  a  single 
movement  plucked  down  a  young  sapling.  When  he 
had  made  fast  his  catch  and  the  sapling  sprung  back, 
Joy  turned  and  called  sharply,  over  her  shoulder: 
"Manteo,  I  must  have  some  green  firewood.  I  bake 
bread  to-day." 

The  earliest  Methodist  preacher  was  always  a  cir 
cuit-rider.  Tobias  Valentine,  brave  soul,  had  physical 
as  well  as  spiritual  battles  to  fight.  Though  his  bodily 
feebleness  never  limited  his  zeal,  it  did  limit  the  reach 
of  his  ministerial  labors.  Therefore  the  circuit  which 
he  rode  was  somewhat  narrowed.  To-day  he  was  at 
Ebenezer,  preaching.  Joyce,  ever  unwilling  that  he 
should  be  a  hewer  of  wood,  chose  the  time  of  his  ab 
sence  to  make  her  request  for  fuel.  The  Indian,  with 
out  response,  came  softly  in,  lifted  down  his  gun,  and 
signed  to  Jessop  to  accompany  him. 


16  MISTRESS  JOY 

"How  's  that?"  cried  Jessop,  turning  in  his  chair. 
"What 's  up  with  old  Solemns  now  ?" 

"He  wants  you  to  go  and  cut  the  wood,"  replied 
Joy,  a  little  grimly.  Manteo  had  solved  the  problem, 
and  she  was  not  sorry. 

"Cut  wood,  is  it?"  asked  Jessop,  blankly.  "Why, 
I  have  naught  but  a  penknife  to  cut  it  with.  My 
sword,  Mistress  Joyce,  an  implement  I  am  more  used 
to  wielding  than  an  ax,  is  not  here." 

"Nobody  could  cut  wood  with  a  sword,"  returned 
Joy.  "I  suppose  you  said  that  for  a  jest,  Master  Jes 
sop,  but  't  is  no  jest;  the  wood  we  must  have.  Will 
you  cut  it,  sir,  or  shall  I  ?" 

"Why  not  my  highly  respected  guide  and  body 
guard  of  one?"  suggested  Jessop,  pointing  toward 
Manteo,  where  he  stood  waiting. 

"Brave  no  work,"  remarked  that  worthy,  calmly. 
"Hunt.  Fish.  Fight.  No  work.  Squaw  work. 
Paleface  work." 

"Master — Master — "  ("Manteo,"  supplied  Joyce.) 
"Aye,"  agreed  the  other,  "Master  Manteo,  my  esteemed 
friend,  your  case  and  mine  are  identical.  I  am  a  war 
rior  myself — a  battered  one,  't  is  true — and  I  'no 
work.' '  He  threw  himself  back,  laughing,  in  his  chair. 

"  'T  is  no  jest,  sir,"  repeated  Joyce,  sternly.  "Man 
teo  does  not  work.  He  came  with  us  from  the  Caro- 
linas,  where  my  father  cured  him  of  a  fever,  and  he 
has  lived  with  us  many  years.  He  will  go  with  his 
gun  to  protect  you,  for  't  is  an  outlying  field,  and 
there  are  always  prowling  Indians  or  wild  beasts  to 
be  feared." 

Jessop  arose  unwillingly.  "  'T  is  a  new  role,"  he 
said ;  "but,  as  Master  William  Shakspere  hath  it,  'One 
man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts/  and  I  vow  that, 
for  thy  sake,  Mistress  Joyce,  I  will  e'en  play  the  part 
of  wood-chopper." 


MISTRESS  JOY  17 

Inexperienced  as  Joyce  was,  she  resented  his  atti 
tude.  "No,"  she  objected,  "not  for  my  sake,  sir.  Do 
you  not  also  eat  bread?  And  my  father?  Shall  we 
all  starve  and  perish  because  you  are  too  fine  a  gentle 
man  to  work?"  Then,  as  his  shamed  glance,  at  the 
word  "gentleman,"  traveled  downward  over  his  sorry 
clothing,  Joy's  heart  smote  her,  and  she  added,  "Thank 
you  kindly;  I  will  come  at  noon  to  bring  your  dinner." 

When  Joyce  reached  the  clearing  with  her  dinner- 
bucket  and  jug  of  broth,  the  Indian  was  sitting  stol 
idly,  his  long  rifle  across  his  knees,  and  that  introspec 
tive  gaze  of  his  searching  the  wooded  slopes  beyond 
the  river.  There  was  no  sound  of  chopping,  and  she 
quickened  her  pace  as  she  rounded  the  little  opening. 
Jessop  was  lying  with  his  arm  beneath  his  head  and 
his  face  turned  up  to  the  sky,  apparently  dozing,  his 
ax  beside  him. 

The  unfrequent  color  rose  in  Joy's  face  at  the  sight. 
"Where  is  the  wood  for  my  baking?"  she  called 
sharply.  "  'T  is  five  hours  by  sun,  and  not  a  stick 
yet  cut." 

He  sat  up  and,  looking  indifferently  toward  her,  re 
plied,  "Faith,  I  believe  I  have  been  asleep ;  these  roads 
of  yours — do  you  call  them  roads? — are  enough  to 
lay  a  man  by  the  heels.  I  was  tired;  I  stretched  me 
out,  and  old  Solemns  over  there  failed  to  wake  me." 

Joyce  turned  to  the  Indian,  with  an  angry  question. 
"Indian  no  chop  wood,"  he  answered. 

"This  cursed  climate,"  shuddered  Jessop,  "hath  a 
morning  mist  which  chills  to  the  bone.  I  've  been  sit 
ting  here,  ere  I  slept,  hugging  myself  to  get  warm." 

"Warm  yourself  chopping  wood,  sirrah,"  flashed 
Joy,  "for  the  wood  we  must  have.  We  are  out,  and 
bread  to  bake." 

Jessop  rose,  took  up  the  ax,  and  bowed  sardonically, 
though  his  knees  shook  under  him.  "Who  would  not 


i8  MISTRESS  JOY 

play  Ferdinand  to  so  fair  a  Miranda?"  he  cried  mock 
ingly.  "And  see" — pointing  to  the  Indian,  who  re 
garded  their  little  byplay  not  at  all — "there  's  our 
Caliban.  'T  is  the  scene,  figure  for  figure,  and  I  will 
e'en  cut  you  the  firewood." 

He  lifted  the  ax  and  struck  a  straggling,  glancing 
blow,  while  Joy  looked  at  him  with  disapproval.  She 
did  not  comprehend  his  allusions;  the  plays  of  Master 
Shakspere  did  not  come  within  the  discipline  of  the 
Methodist  Society,  but  she  perceived  that  she  was 
mocked.  "I  know  not,"  she  said  angrily,  "of  the  per 
sons  you  mention,  but  I  do  know  that  I  must  have  fire 
wood,  and  people  who  are  too  lazy  to  work  ought  to 
be  too  lazy  to  eat.  Give  me  the  ax." 

Jessop  faced  her  with  an  exaggerated  bow,  and  burst 
out  laughing.  "  'T  is  as  good  as  a  play,"  he  cried. 
"My  faith !  't  is  better  than  most  plays." 

Her  little  white  teeth  came  together  firmly.  "Give 
me  that  ax,"  she  commanded  again,  sternly,  "and  go 
your  ways,  sirrah.  Find  others  who  are  willing  to 
house  you  idle;  my  father  cannot — I  will  not.  Give 
me  the  ax,  I  say !  I  can  chop  the  wood — 't  will  not  be 
the  first  time  by  many.  We  must  eat,  and  we  cannot 
eat  raw  bread." 

"Your  lightest  wish  is  a  command,"  responded 
Jessop,  ironically,  as  he  relinquished  the  ax  and 
dropped,  with  something  like  a  groan,  back  into  his 
old  posture. 

Presently  ringing  strokes  aroused  him.  Joyce  was 
trying  her  ax.  As  he  looked  she  stepped  lightly  to  a 
small  tree.  Jessop  followed  her  motions  with  the  sim 
ple  amusement  we  give  to  the  performances  of  an 
angry  child.  She  had  turned  the  sleeves  of  blue  home 
spun  up  to  her  shoulders,  baring  round,  firm,  white 
arms,  and,  with  a  skill  born  of  some  experience,  she 
began  chopping.  The  bright  hair,  loosened  by  vigor- 


MISTRESS  JOY  19 

ous  motion,  blew  about  her  flushed  face;  her  red  lips 
were  parted,  and  her  gray,  large-pupiled  eyes  were  dark 
with  anger.  Jessop  looked  and  wondered.  Wood, 
girl,  impassive  Indian,  seemed  to  him  grotesque  figures 
in  a  dream. 

"There,"  called  Joyce,  over  her  shoulder,  as  the  tree 
fell,  "can  you  not  do  that,  now,  after  a  girl  has  shown 
you  the  way?" 

Jessop  glared  at  her  in  a  dazed  fashion,  and,  for  no 
reason,  broke  into  foolish  laughter. 

Joy  looked  at  him  with  scarlet  cheeks  and  flashing 
eyes.  Was  it  not  enough  that  she  should  do  a  man's 
work,  while  this  idle  lout  looked  on  ?  Must  she  bear  it 
to  be  jeered  at  her  inappropriate  task? 

As  she  gazed,  the  man's  face  dropped  from  mirth  to 
the  deepest  depth  of  woe,  his  shoulders  heaved,  and  in 
the  midst  of  his  discordant  laughter  he  fell  to  sobbing 
desperately. 

Joy  laid  her  ax  slowly  clown,  and  went  hesitatingly 
toward  him.  Jessop  had  hidden  his  face.  Back  of 
and  beyond  his  terror  of  this  laughter  which  he  could 
not  stifle  and  these  sobs  which  he  could  not  check,  was 
an  overwhelming  shame.  He,  a  man  and  a  soldier, 
weeping  like  an  hysterical  woman ! 

Yet,  as  Joy  came  near,  in  spite  of  his  abasement,  he 
put  out  a  shaking  hand  and,  grasping  her  dress,  hid 
his  face  against  it.  "What  is  it?"  he  gasped. 

His  hand  against  her  own  was  like  fire,  and  where 
his  wrist  crossed  her  fingers  she  could  feel  the  leaping 
of  his  pulse.  "  'T  is  swamp  fever  you  have,  belike," 
she  answered,  not  unkindly,  and  her  eyes  interrogated 
Manteo,  who  nodded  assent. 

"God  be  thanked  't  is  no  worse,"  murmured  Jessop, 
from  the  folds  of  her  cape,  which  he  had  pulled  about 
his  face.  "I  did  fancy  I  was  going  mad." 

"I  am  sorry  I  spoke  harshly  to  you,"  said  Joyce, 


20  MISTRESS  JOY 

simply.  "I  did  not  know  that  you  were  ill.  Can  you 
walk  a  little,  do  you  think?" 

The  half-fainting  man  opened  his  eyes  and  replied : 
"I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  yourself  about  me.  Make 
him" — pointing  to  the  Indian — "cut  the  wood  for  you, 
and  I — will  help — drag  it  home."  Then  the  swoon 
took  him,  so  that  Joyce  and  the  Indian  lifted  him,  limp 
and  unconscious,  to  the  rude  sled,  and,  his  head  pil 
lowed  on  Joy's  cape,  together  they  got  him  to  the  cabin. 

When  they  reached  it,  one  of  Father  Tobias's  char 
acteristic  communications  was  found  pinned  upon  the 
door  with  his  hunting-knife — the  hunting-knife  for 
which  he  would  search,  was  probably  even  then  search 
ing,  in  despair. 

"Have  gone  to  bury  Bushrod  Jackson,"  the  message 
ran.  "He  is  dead." 

The  latter  clause  made  Joyce  laugh  hysterically,  but 
she  soon  turned  again  to  her  perplexities.  "What 
shall  we  do?"  she  cried. 

The  Indian  raised  Jessop,  and  carried  him  into  the 
house.  "Manteo  take  care  of  him  all  right,"  he  said 
indifferently.  He  evidently  considered  that  his  minis 
trations,  although  perhaps  inferior  to  those  of  Father 
Tobias,  were  quite  good  enough  for  this  wayfaring 
man,  who  had  from  the  first  found  little  favor  in  his 
eyes. 

Joyce  went  to  the  big  fireplace  in  her  kitchen, 
mended  the  fire,  and  set  on  a  kettle  of  water,  to  prepare 
the  only  medicament  at  hand.  Had  Father  Tobias 
been  present,  he  would  have  opened  a  vein  and  bled 
the  man  at  the  height  of  his  fever;  and,  according  to 
the  best  beliefs  of  that  time,  the  patient  was  likely  to 
suffer  much  from  lack  of  this  treatment. 

Turning  over  her  store  of  herbs  and  simples  in 
search  of  that  root  from  which  the  tea  should  be  made, 
Joy  was  haunted  by  the  recollection  that  she  had  been 


MISTRESS  JOY  21 

unkind  to  the  stranger.  She  had  taunted  him  with  his 
weakness,  and  he  had  wept.  At  the  thought,  tears 
rose  in  her  own  eyes.  Poor  child !  with  little  know 
ledge  of  life,  and  less  of  men,  she  did  not  reflect  that 
Jessop's  hysterical  outbreak  was  simply  the  first  work 
ings  of  the  fever  in  his  veins.  It  appeared  to  her  that 
his  extreme  sensibility  to  reproof  showed  a  tender 
heart;  that  innocent,  credulous  zeal  which  proclaimed 
her  Father  Tobias's  very  daughter  was  all  aflame  at 
thought  of  a  possible  convert.  She  recognized  that 
this  man  belonged  to  a  fine  and  polished  world — a 
world  high  above  her  simple  belongings.  She  felt,  too, 
that  he  had  been  and  was,  as  she  would  have  phrased  it, 
a  sinful  man ;  he  might  even  be  a  Papist.  If  she  could 
offer  him  to  God  as  the  first-fruits  of  that  ministry 
to  which  she  believed  herself  called,  how  glorious  it 
would  be! 

When  the  tea  was  brewed,  she  carried  it  into  the 
tiny  bedroom,  scarcely  more  than  a  closet.  Their  pa 
tient  had  been  undressed,  and  a  fine  white  ruffled  shirt, 
with  a  frill  of  frayed  lace  put  upon  him.  It  was  part 
of  the  clothing  brought  in  his  sorry  bundle  when  he 
came  to  them.  He  lay  now  in  the  bed,  his  long  curls 
tossed  over  the  pillow,  his  cheeks  flaming,  his  eyes 
bright  with  fever,  babbling  incessantly  in  a  sort  of 
undertone,  while  the  Indian  sat  beside  him. 

As  Joyce  came  in  he  looked  up  at  her,  and  his  lips 
curved  themselves  like  the  mouth  of  a  child.  "O 
mother !"  he  murmured,  "I  'm  glad  that  you  have  come. 
My  head !  Pray  put  your  hand  upon  it.  See,  't  is 
burning.  Ah!"  as  Joy's  cool  palm  settled  upon  his 
brow,  "that  's  good.  I  knew  that  you  would  put  the 
fire  out,  mother." 

Joyce  administered  the  tea,  and  bathed  Jessop's  fore 
head,  sitting  beside  him,  waiting,  full  of  anxious  solici 
tude.  But  his  fever  did  not  abate ;  indeed,  it  increased. 


22  MISTRESS  JOY 

Finally,  his  low  mutterings  changed  to  hoarse  shouts. 
Joyce  did  not  recognize  the  phrases,  but  he  ran  through 
the  drill  of  a  cavalry  squadron,  calling  out,  and  then 
himself  repeating,  the  orders  of  officers,  and  swearing 
with  vexation  over  the  awkwardness  of  his  imagined 
pupils.  He  called  for  his  horse.  He  declared  he  must 
be  going — he  had  an  engagement  to  meet,  and  he  men 
tioned  names  unknown  to  Joy. 

When  she  found  her  strength  inadequate  to  restrain 
him,  she  called  for  Manteo.  That  worthy  came,  stud 
ied  the  situation,  and  rose  to  it  with  a  coil  of  small 
rope  in  his  hand.  "Me  tie  him,"  he  announced.  "He 
no  get  away  from  Manteo." 

"Why,  Manteo !  how  canst  be  so  cruel  ?  The  poor 
soul  is  bereft  of  reason.  See,  he  raves.  Take  thy 
hands  off  him." 

A  gleam  of  something  like  amusement  came  over  the 
stolid  face.  "Manteo  no  hurt  him,"  he  insisted. 
"Manteo  take  him  out  bed,  drop  him  in  nice  cool  river. 
He  hot" 

With  the  Indian  one  could  never  be  sure  whether 
such  a  proposition  as  this  was  deadly  earnest,  or  simply 
a  ferocious  jest.  Joy,  however,  took  no  chonces.  She 
laid  a  sweeping  interdict  upon  all  empiric  treatment. 
"And,  Manteo,"  she  said,  "see  to  it  that  you  take  good 
care  of  the  poor  man.  Be  kind  and  gentle  with  him. 
I  must  go  for  help." 

She  threw  on  the  gray  homespun  cloak,  and  tucked 
her  bright  hair  sternly  away  in  its  stiff,  quilted  hood. 
Halting  in  the  cabin  door,  she  looked  irresolutely  over 
toward  the  settlement,  then  turned  her  gaze  the  other 
way,  and  decided  to  seek  assistance  from  their  nearest 
neighbors,  the  family  of  Judge  Bruin. 

She  shrank  from  going  alone  through  mud  and  rain 
to  Bayou  Pierre.  The  daughter  of  a  nonconforming 
preacher,  belonging  strictly  to  the  little  community  of 


MISTRESS  JOY  23 

Methodists  which  formed  one  of  the  churches  or  so 
cieties  of  her  father's  circuit,  she  was  unacquainted 
with  the  aristocratic  families  of  the  district,  even 
among  the  English-speaking  residents,  while  the  Span 
ish  Catholics  who  ruled  the  land  were  as  foreign  to  her 
and  as  little  known  as  though  they  still  dwelt  in  Spain. 
But  this  girl  was  not  one  to  let  inclination — the  voice 
of  the  flesh,  as  she  called  it — interfere  with  the  prompt 
ings  of  duty.  With  one  backward  glance  toward  her 
patient  and  the  Indian,  who  was  holding  him  firmly, 
but  not  unkindly,  she  set  forth.  The  afternoon  was 
waning,  cold,  cloudy.  A  thick  mist  closed  in  about 
her,  soaking  her  through. 


CHAPTER  III 


HE  immediate  surroundings  of  the 
Valentine  cabin  were  primitive,  with 
a  lingering  trace  of  forest  wildness, 
but  the  road  into  which  Joy  soon 
turned  had  been  made  with  care,  and 
thenceforward  her  way  lay  straight 
and  smooth.  Rain  fell  now,  silently, 
persistently,  and  the  earth  beneath  was  thick,  black 
mud,  but  Joy  walked  with  a  swinging,  agile  grace,  her 
head  up,  and  the  dark  gray  eyes  looking  resolutely 
before  her. 

To  the  south  lay  a  little  brotherhood  of  cabins  simi 
lar  to  that  of  Tobias  Valentine,  mainly  owned  and 
occupied  by  those  belonging  to  the  Society  of  Metho 
dists,  to  which  her  father  ministered. 

Tobias  Valentine  was  a  man  of  birth  and  breeding ; 
owing  perhaps  to  the  dauntless  courage  which  in  him 
was  combined  with  a  most  sweet  and  gentle  temper, 
his  small  flock  had  been  permitted  to  worship  undis 
turbed  even  beneath  Spanish  Catholic  rule. 

The  members  of  the  Society  held  themselves  a  people 
apart,  and  asked  no  favors  from  their  Spanish  neigh 
bors,  nor  even  from  the  wealthy  planters  among  the 
English-speaking  citizens.  Yet  it  was  not  toward  the 
little  group  of  cabins  Joy  turned  in  this  emergency. 
The  man  back  there  in  her  humble  home  was  not  of 
their  kind,  and  so  she  set  her  face  steadily  toward  the 
great  house. 

24 


MISTRESS  JOY  25 

She  arrived  at  the  mansion,  standing  well  back  in  a 
grove  of  magnolias,  and  paused  for  a  moment  to  glance 
out  over  the  expanse  of  cultivated  land  spread  before 
her.  Half  wistful  in  her  enjoyment  of  the  beauty  of 
this  stately  demesne,  she  lifted  the  heavy  knocker,  and 
to  its  resounding  fall  a  black  man,  from  his  seat  just 
within,  responded  promptly.  Her  request  to  see  the 
master  evoked  a  rather  scornful  look  at  her  shabby 
figure.  She  glanced  half  sadly  down  over  her  damp, 
mud-spattered  clothes  and  forlorn  shoes,  and  felt  with 
out  resentment  that  they  were  indeed  unfitted  to  this 
sumptuous  hallway.  This  was  the  first  house  of  any 
elegance  in  which  she  had  ever  been,  yet  something  in 
the  girl's  many-sided  nature  responded  to  the  grace 
and  seemliness  of  it  as  readily  as  a  fine-toned  instru 
ment  answers  the  accustomed  hand. 

From  a  room  in  the  rear  of  the  house  came  the  sound 
of  talking  and  laughing,  and  out  of  it  soon  issued  also 
an  old  gentleman  in  immaculate  small-clothes,  cutaway 
coat,  voluminous  ruffles,  and  carefully  tied  peruke. 
This  was  Judge  Bruin.  He  gave  her  kindly  greeting, 
and  when  she  had  explained  her  errand  was  about  to 
accede  to  the  appeal  in  her  eyes,  if  not  in  her  words, 
that  he  return  with  her  to  the  sick  man. 

He  hesitated,  however,  and  glanced  through  the  side 
lights  of  the  entrance.  "  'T  is  a  foul  evening  for  you 
to  be  abroad,  Mistress  Valentine,"  he  said.  "Cassius," 
turning  to  the  negro,  "tell  Mink  to  bring  the  gray 
horses  and  the  carryall  around." 

Through  the  open  doorway  of  the  dining-room,  Joy 
now  had  a  glimpse  of  a  handsome,  graceful  mascu 
line  head,  with  the  rosy  light  of  shaded  wax  candles  be 
hind  it.  As  the  man  to  whom  it  belonged  turned  at  the 
doorway  to  fling  one  last  laughing  jest  over  his  shoul 
der  to  some  one  in  the  room  behind,  the  charm  and 
grace  of  his  appearance  took  hold  upon  her  fancy  just 


26  MISTRESS   JOY 

as  a  masterpiece  of  painting  or  sculpture  would  have 
done.  Again  across  her  consciousness  there  cut  a  sharp 
sense  of  her  kinship  with  these  people  and  this  world. 

Stepping  lightly,  with  a  graceful  air,  toward  Judge 
Bruin  and  herself,  the  newcomer  bowed  pleasantly  and 
asked :  "Is  there  aught  I  can  do  to  serve  you?"  Then, 
catching  sight  of  Joy's  face  under  the  rough  sheltering 
hood,  he  came  yet  nearer,  and  added,  "Or  can  I  serve 
the  lady?" 

"Nay,"  deprecated  his  host;  "I  do  not  send  my 
guests  on  errands  which  I  myself  dread."  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  shivered  a  little.  Then,  turning 
with  old-time  stateliness,  "Mistress  Valentine,  may  I 
present  to  you  Colonel  Aaron  Burr,  late  so  illustrious 
in  our  wars,  and  promising  to  become  a  power  in  the 
councils  of  the  nation?  I  know  right  well  that  you 
have  heard  of  him." 

Now,  who  taught  Joyce  Valentine  to  curtsy?  She 
had  seen  the  thing  done  but  two  or  three  times  in 
her  life;  her  instinct,  however,  told  her  that  here  the 
curtsy  came  in,  and  before  she  was  well  aware  of  her 
own  intention  she  had,  with  an  inclination  of  the  proud 
little  head,  a  sweep  of  the  slim,  arched  foot  in  its  soak 
ing  shoe,  and  a  quick  dropping  of  the  lithe,  young 
form,  done  the  thing — and  done  it  beautifully. 

"  'T  is  a  gentleman  fallen  very  ill  at  good  Master 
Valentine's  home,"  proceeded  Judge  Bruin.  "Master 
Valentine  is  pastor  of  our  Methodist  Society  here — the 
first  in  the  province,  as  you  know,  Colonel  Burr.  We 
churchmen  hold  great  pride  in  Master  Tobias  Valen 
tine,  and,  though  we  differ,  we  do  not  disagree." 

"Is  it  a  fever?"  inquired  Burr.  "If  so,  I  might  be 
of  use.  I  can  open  a  vein  as  well  as  any  leech  living." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  the  judge,  "a  fever,  and  a  violent 
one,  so  Mistress  Valentine  saith.  Her  father  is  from 
home.  I  was  going — " 


MISTRESS  JOY  27 

"Nay,  nay,"  interrupted  Colonel  Burr;  "none  but 
myself  goes  with  Mistress  Valentine  this  night.  May 
I  delay  you  a  moment," — turning  to  the  girl, — "while  I 
fetch  some  remedies  and  my  lancet?" 

As  Burr  came  down  the  stairway,  buttoning  his 
many-caped  coat  of  gray  about  him,  the  carryall  drew 
up  at  the  door.  Thanking  the  judge  with  quiet  dig 
nity,  Joy  was  handed  into  the  vehicle  by  her  cavalier, 
and  the  return  journey  was  begun. 

Colonel  Aaron  Burr,  a  man  well  calculated  to  stir 
the  fancy  of  an  inexperienced  girl,  was  then  forty-two 
years  of  age,  but  appeared  much  younger.  With  the 
suavity,  the  address  of  a  courtier,  he  was  yet  not  ex 
actly  handsome,  nor  a  man  of  presence,  being  below 
rather  than  above  medium  height.  His  features  were 
aquiline,  clear-cut,  lighted  by  deep  gray  eyes.  And 
there  lived  a  power  in  these  wonderful  eyes  which  had 
changed  more  than  one  human  destiny.  His  manner 
to  women,  of  whatever  age  or  station,  was  marked  by 
a  gentleness  and  deference  infinitely  captivating.  His 
wit  and  sunny  temper,  his  freedom  from  pessimism, 
his  unquestioned  courage  and  debonair  tranquillity  in 
the  face  of  fate,  gained  him  friends  and  adherents  who 
clung  to  him  amid  bitter  disaster  and  disgrace. 

The  horses  floundered  through  deep  mud;  rain  fell 
softly,  but  densely. 

Burr,  leaning  back  against  the  side  of  the  carryall, 
that  his  own  face  might  be  in  shadow,  studied  the  deli 
cate,  pure  profile  of  his  companion  as  he  saw  it  against 
the  dusk.  "This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  yours,  Mis 
tress  Valentine?"  he  began.  "Happy,  happy  man,  to 
be  of  so  much  concern  to  so  fair  a  friend !" 

"Nay,"  demurred  Joy,  turning  clear,  child-like 
eyes  upon  him,  with  frank  enjoyment  of  his  pleasant 
voice  and  kindly  speech.  "  'T  is  no  friend  of  mine, 
sir;  't  is  a  poor,  broken  gentleman,  who  came  to  our 


28  MISTRESS  JOY 

house,  three  days  agone,  on  just  such  a  night  as  this. 
We  turn  no  wanderer  away,  for  father  says,"  with  a 
sudden  bubble  of  laughter,  "we  may  some  day  enter 
tain  an  angel  unawares.  So  he  remained  with  us,  and 
now  is  fallen  very  ill.  As  for  my  solicitude,  had  you 
heard  how  unkindly  I  spoke  to  the  poor  creature,  you 
would  not  wonder  that  my  conscience  bids  me  do  all 
I  can  for  him." 

A  little  skilful  questioning  put  Burr  in  possession 
of  Joy's  version  of  the  wood-cutting  episode.  "And 
canst  indeed  chop  wood  with  those  pretty,  pretty 
hands  ?"  he  asked. 

Joyce  spread  a  hand  artlessly  upon  her  knee.  "Are 
they  pretty?"  she  inquired  thoughtfully.  "They  are 
small  enough,  but  they  are  most  woefully  red  and 
rough,  do  you  not  think  so?"  With  a  laugh  which 
had  a  little  catch  in  it  almost  a  sob,  "I  do  so  many 
things  like  wood-chopping  and  bread-making  and  the 
washing  of  our  clothing,  that  it  would  be  impossible 
for  me  to  have  white  hands,"  she  concluded,  as  she 
wrapped  them  in  her  cloak  and  leaned  forward  to  peer 
ahead. 

"A  better  man  than  I,  Mistress  Valentine,"  said 
Burr,  "would  tell  you  that  those  hands,  roughened  by 
ministering  to  others,  were  more  beautiful  than  all  the 
fair  an4  useless  hands  in  the  world.  For  my  part," 
and  he  laughed  whimsically,  "I  am  inclined  to  say 
that  you  are  a  very  odd  young  damsel — that  I  have 
never  met  your  like  before.  Yet,  I  believe  you  are 
but  a  child  masquerading  as  a  woman,  and  I  do  not 
think  sugar-plums  are  good  for  children." 

It  was  very  little  of  this  speech  that  Joy  compre 
hended,  but  she  was  always  ready  for  a  jest,  and  so 
she  laughed  amicably. 

As  they  drove  through  darkness  and  rain,  Burr  ques 
tioned  and  the  young  girl  answered.  And  when  she 


MISTRESS  JOY  29 

reached  her  home  she  was  aware,  with  some  wonder 
ment,  that  she  had  told  him  things  which  she  had 
never  told  even  Father  Tobias;  that  he  appeared  to 
know  her  whole  history  as  well,  indeed,  as  though  he 
had  been  one  of  the  three  who  drifted  down  the  river 
in  that  half-remembered  canoe,  and  had  helped  to  clear 
away  the  canes  and  build  first  the  little  log  hut,  and 
then  the  meeting-house  which  promptly  followed  it. 

Arriving  at  the  cabin,  they  found  the  patient  still 
delirious.  The  Indian  was  in  the  outer  room,  crouched 
by  the  fire,  and  at  Jessop's  side  was  a  tall,  fair  young 
man,  whom  Joy  presented  to  Burr  as  Master  David 
Batchelor.  It  was  a  face  before  which  disorder  fell 
away;  and  as  he  sat  holding  the  sick  man's  hand,  his 
mere  presence  plainly  quieted  the  sufferer. 

Colonel  Burr,  as  was  natural,  assumed  command  of 
affairs.  "First,"  he  announced,  "to  ascertain,  if  we 
may,  who  this  fellow  is,  and  whether  he  hath  friends 
with  whom  we  may  communicate."  He  picked  up  the 
man's  bundle,  and  turned  it  out  upon  the  table.  The 
linen  it  contained  was  tattered  and  almost  useless,  but 
very  fine  and  richly  embroidered.  There  was  a  small 
Greek  testament,  whose  Latin  inscription  set  forth  that 
the  owner  was  a  graduate  of  Oxford  University.  The 
name  had  been  erased.  A  broad,  plain  ring,  the  only 
article  of  value  found,  had  cut  upon  it,  as  a  seal, 
the  crest  which  appeared  in  the  embroideries  of  the 
linen. 

"Well,  if  our  man  be  a  thief,  he  has  stolen  all  these 
things  from  one  person ;  and  if  they  are  his  own,  he  is 
a  gentleman  of  aristocratic  birth  and  superior  educa 
tion,"  concluded  Burr.  "Now,  for  a  look  at  the  man 
himself." 

Master  Batchelor  resigned  his  place  at  the  bedside 
to  Burr.  "This  is  no  thief,"  he  said,  with  conviction, 
as  he  arose. 


30  MISTRESS  JOY 

"How  know  you  that,  sir?"  inquired  Burr,  smil 
ingly.  "Have  you  second  sight?" 

"Nay,"  returned  the  young  man,  "I  am  that  rare 
thing — a  Scotchman  without  second  sight ;  but,  having 
been  sometime  a  trader  and  concerned  in  the  cattle  busi 
ness,  it  hath  served  me  to  learn  an  honest  man's  eyes 
and  forehead,  and  I  should  say  this  man  is  not  a  thief." 

Burr  put  his  hand  upon  that  forehead  which  Master 
Batchelor  had  indorsed  as  an  honest  one,  remarking 
thoughtfully :  "His  fever  is  well  advanced ;  't  is  time, 
methinks,  that  there  were  blood  let.  Mistress  Valen 
tine,  may  I  so  far  trouble  you  as  to  ask  for  a  basin  and 
cloths?" 

When  Joy  was  gone  for  the  necessary  articles,  Burr 
turned  to  the  tall  young  man  and  questioned  him. 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  matter,"  returned  Batchelor. 
"I  am  not,  as  you  seem  to  apprehend,  a  member  of  this 
family.  I  but  called  on  my  way  home  from  the  settle 
ment;  my  place  is  'The  Meadows/  just  beyond  the 
Half-way  House." 

At  mention  of  the  Half-way  House,  Burr  turned 
again  and  looked  the  man  over  keenly.  "You  are, 
then,  near  neighbor  to  some  friends  of  mine,  the  Guions 
of  Half-way  Cottage,"  he  said.  "Now,  that  I  think  of 
it,  I  know  you  right  well  from  hearsay.  You  are  that 
Master  Batchelor,  so  irked  within  the  decent  frying- 
pan  of  the  Established  Church  that  he  must  e'en  hop 
into  the  Methody  fire."  The  jest  was  accompanied  by 
Burr's  winning  smile  which  deprecated  offense. 

Batchelor's  quiet  face  reflected  a  gleam  of  the  amuse 
ment  in  Burr's.  "I  cry  your  mercy,  sir,"  he  corrected ; 
"I  am  in  neither  frying-pan  nor  fire,  but  in  a  very  cool 
and  peaceful  place  of  mine  own  choosing.  Master  To 
bias  Valentine  is  one  of  the  best  men  I  have  ever  known. 
Once  in  seven  days  I  go  to  hear  him  talk  of  spiritual 
things.  If  he  and  his  flock  need  a  strong  arm  of  flesh, 


MISTRESS   JOY  31 

or  a  stronger  of  coin,  't  is  my  pleasure  to  supply  it; 
but  Methody  I  am  not,  and  of  the  Established  Church 
I  never  was.  Perchance  I  will  make  all  clear  to  you 
if  I  add  that  I  am  a  Scotchman,  and  I  but  take  the 
necessary  fifteen  years  to  making  up  my  mind  in  the 
matter." 

Joy  having  returned,  the  vein  was  opened.  Burr 
watched  carefully  while  the  blood  flowed,  and  finally 
stanched  and  bound  the  tiny  puncture.  During  his 
work  over  the  patient,  he  studied  the  face  critically. 

This  restless,  ambitious  man,  Aaron  Burr,  who  had 
attained  many  honors,  was  already  reaching  a  stealthy 
and  secret  hand  toward  honors  yet  higher.  They  were 
plans  dangerous  to  handle,  and  for  that  reason  the 
dearer  to  their  audacious  originator.  He  needed  al 
ways  those  of  his  own  reckless  temper  to  act  with  him. 
It  occurred  to  him,  full  of  his  own  affairs,  that  this 
man,  probably  high  born,  now  desperately  broken  in 
fortune,  if  not  indeed  a  fleeing  criminal,  might  be  a 
tool  laid  ready  to  his  hand. 

"  'T  is  not  necessary  to  ask  that  you  take  good  care 
of  our  patient,  Mistress  Valentine,"  he  said,  in  depart 
ing.  "I  myself  would  most  willingly  change  places 
with  him,  that  I  might  be  ministered  to  by  so  sweet 
a  guardian ;  but,  pray  you,  look  well  to  him  about  the 
tenth  hour  from  this.  His  fever  will  perchance  come 
up  again,  and  then,  if  some  blood  be  not  let,  he  may 
suffer.  I  will  return  on  the  morrow,  and  I  will  ask 
Judge  Bruin  that  he  send  once  during  the  night  to  in 
quire.  If  you  need  me  at  that  time,  do  not  hesitate 
to  notify  me  by  his  messenger.  There  is  much  in  the 
case  of  this  poor  soul  which  commends  him  to  my  pity." 

Joy  thanked  him  warmly.  As  she  watched  him  get 
into  the  carryall  and  drive  away,  she  wondered  if  all 
great  gentlemen  were  so  full  of  loving-kindness  to 
people  beneath  them  and  to  those  in  misfortune.  She 


32  MISTRESS  JOY 

had  been  brought  up  in  a  bare,  strict  creed,  taught  that 
the  world's  people  were  all  in  deadly  error;  and  now, 
this  first  one  of  them  she  met  appeared  to  her  as  good 
and  generous  as  Father  Tobias  himself.  Talk  of 
Burr's  light  living,  his  unseemly  attitude  toward  many 
things  held  most  sacred  by  her  people,  had  reached 
even  her  seclusion.  But  her  innocence  found  in  his 
idle  gallantry  only  a  brotherly  kindness. 

Pastor  Valentine  would  not  be  home  before  the  mor 
row.  David  Batchelor  remained  to  help  with  the  sick 
man;  and  during  the  long  night  watches,  while  they 
shared  this  task,  the  girl  reverted  again  and  again  not 
to  Burr's  graces  or  attractions,  but,  with  eager  appre 
ciation,  to  his  quick  generosity,  his  willing  service. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  seventh  Sabbath  of  Jessop's  illness 
brought  with  it  a  dazzle  of  sunshine. 
Poor  Jessop !  He  had  anathematized 
the  climate,  cursed  the  muddy  roads 
and  dismal  rains.  Now,  as  he  lay, 
feeling  almost  too  languid  to  lift  his 
tired  eyelids  and  look  with  dull  and 
wearied  eyes  toward  the  light,  its  rays  came  pouring 
in  through  the  low  window,  and  tapestried  his  little 
room  with  fairy  gold. 

As  always,  it  was  upon  Joy's  head  that  the  bright 
ness  seemed  to  linger  most  lovingly.  She  had  made 
the  room  as  clean  as  hands  could  make  it.  And  now, 
kneeling  by  his  bedside,  she  was  reading  morning 
prayers  and  a  chapter. 

"Do  I  weary  you,  Master  Jessop?"  she  inquired  tim 
idly.  "Father  reads  much  better  than  I — might  I  call 
him?" 

"Nay,"  whispered  the  convalescing  man,  with  the 
ghost  of  a  smile;  "that  would  take  away  my  Joy, 
indeed." 

Joy  laughed  appreciatively.  "May  I  read  you  a 
hymn,  then?" 

"I  pray  you,"  answered  Jessop,  in  that  painfully 
tired  voice  which  moved  her  woman's  soul  to  such 
compassion  that  she  could  feel  no  resentment,  whatever 
the  matter  of  his  speech — "I  pray  you,  Mistress  Joy, 
turn  my  pillow,  so  that  I  may  see  your  face  more  easily 
3  33 


34  MISTRESS  JOY 

as  I  lie,  and  read  me  something  about  love.  Such  lips 
as  yours  were  never  meant  to  waste  their  sweetness  dis 
coursing  upon  other  matters." 

Joy  adjusted  his  pillows,  seated  herself  in  the  bed 
side  chair,  and  announced  with  serenity,  resolutely  un 
conscious  of  any  under  meaning  in  his  words,  "Hark, 
then,  I  will  read  ye  the  most  beautiful  hymn  of  divine 
love  Charles  Wesley  ever  wrote." 

There  was  a  little  grimace,  then  followed  a  smile 
as  her  eloquent  young  voice  began  upon  the  words : 

"Thy  only  love  do  I  require, 
Nothing  in  earth  beneath  desire, 

Nothing  in  heaven  above: 
Let  earth  and  heaven  and  all  things  go, 
Give  me  Thine  only  love  to  know, 
Give  me  Thy  only  love." 

"Mistress  Joyce,  when  you  read  it,"  he  murmured, 
as  the  verses  were  finished — "when  you  read  it,  't  is 
all  one,  divine  love  or  earthly  love;  for  whatever  you 
say,  you  speak  to  me  of  love." 

"I  hope  so,"  answered  Joy,  simply;  "it  is  God's  com 
mand  that  we  love  one  another." 

He  raised  his  heavy  eyes  and  gazed  straight  into  her 
earnest  face.  "Nay,  sweet,"  he  remonstrated,  "love 
not  too  many;  love  only  me." 

Joy  drew  back  with  a  gesture  of  disrelish,  and  gath 
ered  up  her  hymnal  and  Bible,  preparatory  to  depart 
ure.  "The  command  is  to  love  all  men,  sinners  as  well 
as  the  just,"  she  remarked,  somewhat  dryly;  "but  I 
assure  you,  Master  Jessop,  my  father  is  much  better 
able  to  love  sinners  than  I.  I  have  not  patience  with 
them,  though  oft  I  pray  for  it." 

"Good  lack!"  called  Colonel  Burr's  voice,  from  the 
door.  "Here  's  the  Mother  Superior  shriving  my  pa 
tient's  soul.  Is 't  so  bad  as  that  ?  Is  he  in  extremis?" 


MISTRESS  JOY  35 

"Not  so,  colonel,"  returned  the  sick  man,  and  a  spice 
of  malice  gave  strength  to  his  voice.  "Mistress  Valen 
tine  hath  but  talked  to  me  of  love.  Perchance  my  soul 
doth  not  commend  itself  to  her." 

Joy  greeted  the  newcomer  gravely,  and  thanked 
him  for  coming  to  sit  with  their  almost  recovered  pa 
tient.  Burr  had  been  unremitting  in  his  attentions 
during  Jessop's  tedious  illness;  and  now,  as  he  had 
done  several  times  formerly,  he  came  to  relieve  Joy,  so 
that  she  should  hear  at  least  a  portion  of  the  morning 
service.  Jessop's  last  words  gave  the  girl  great  of 
fense,  and  she  left  the  room  with  her  haughty  young 
head  well  up. 

A  proud-carried  creature,  Joy  impressed  Burr  as 
little  like  the  typical  Methody  devotee.  Laughing,  he 
remarked  to  Judge  Bruin,  when  shown  a  pet  filly 
turned  loose  in  the  south  paddock:  "True  blue,  that, 
judge.  Why  not  name  her  Mistress  Joy?  She  's  high- 
headed,  yet  scarce  as  much  so  as  our  fair  little  Methody 
herself." 

"You  see,"  he  began  now,  sitting  down  by  the  bed, 
"you  go  too  far.  'T  is  no  ordinary  country  parson's 
daughter,  to  come  fluttering  to  the  first  lure." 

Joy's  spiritual  aloofness  tantalized  Jessop's  curios 
ity  as  much  as  her  limpid  candor  compelled  his  respect. 
But  now  he  muttered  peevishly :  "They  all  like  it — hang 
'em!  and  they  all  flout  it.  That  's  to  get  more  of  it, 
I  warrant." 

"Think  you  so?"  returned  Burr.  "Likely  you  're 
right  in  most  cases;  but,  if  I  mistake  not,  Mistress 
Joyce  Valentine  hath  a  mind  of  her  own — aye,  and  a 
pretty  little  temper  of  her  own  to  boot."  He  laid  his 
hand  on  the  patient's  forehead,  asked  him  a  few  brief, 
business-like  questions,  then,  "I  think  we  might  try 
sitting  up  to-morrow,"  he  announced. 

"Sit  up?"  echoed  Jessop,  angrily.     "Do  you  want 


36  MISTRESS   JOY 

to  kill  me,  Colonel  Burr?  Here  have  I  been,  flat  o' 
my  back  more  than  six  weeks,  and  you — a  leech,  in 
deed  ! — have  taken  some  quarts,  or  gallons,  of  my  good 
red  blood.  Now,  you  'd  have  me  sitting — when  I 
scarce  can  lift  my  head !" 

Burr  stood  at  the  window,  measuring  a  dose  from 
one  of  his  vials.  "Good  blood,  eh,  Jessop?  I  thought 
as  much.  But  I  have  e'en  fancied  't  was  blue,  rather 
than  red." 

"Let  be,"  growled  the  sick  man.  "You  took  too 
much  of  it,  red  or  blue,  and  I  '11  not  be  able  to  stir 
from  this  bed  before  spring." 

Burr  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "Come  now ! 
You  would  lie  there  just  so  long  as  you  could  have  a 
pretty  nurse  to  minister  to  you — eh  ?  But  let  me  warn 
ye,  my  good  man,  Mistress  Joyce  is  no  fool.  Those 
bright  eyes  of  hers  can  see  farther  into  a  thing  and 
clearer  than  you  guess." 

Jessop  smiled,  but  uneasily.  "Perhaps,"  he  said, 
"Mistress  Joy,  when  she  ceases  to  be  interested  in  min 
istering  to  a  sick  body,  may  find  her  good  offices  en 
treated  by  a  sick  soul." 

"Ahem !  Fair  scheme,"  commented  the  other.  "As 
long  as  they  think  there  's  a  chance  of  your  turning 
Methody  you  may  live  here  off  the  old  man  and  the 
girl  at  no  charge." 

"God's  blood,  Colonel  Burr!  I  swallow  no  such 
words  from  any  man,  whether  he  be  one  who  saved  my 
miserable  life  or  no."  The  tears  of  weakness,  mortifi 
cation,  and  rage  stood  in  Jessop's  eyes.  "Why  do  you 
bait  me  thus  ?  'T  is  your  fault  I  'm  this  side  the  river 
Styx."  Burr  nodded,  without  a  word.  "Well,  then, 
you  Ve  played  at  God  and  created  a  man.  What  are 
you  going  to  do  with  him?  Here  am  I.  Will  you 
have  me  for  a  servant?  I  have  myself  been  served 
enough  years  to  know  how  the  thing  should  be  done." 


MISTRESS  JOY  37 

"Nay,  Major  Jessop,"  Burr  rejoined,  and  looked 
covertly  to  see  how  this  title  struck  the  other.  "I  have 
better  things  laid  up  for  you  than  serving  even  myself." 

An  answering  compression  of  Jessop's  lips  convinced 
his  companion  that  a  military  style  was  not  new  to  him, 
and  half  assured  him  that  the  one  he  had  applied  was 
by  no  means  too  exalted.  Seating  himself  by  the  bed 
side,  he  began,  with  that  skill  and  address  of  which  he 
was  so  perfect  a  master,  to  hint,  and  even  practically 
detail  to  Jessop,  a  scheme  which  was  then  brewing  in 
his  restless  brain. 

The  Mississippi  Province — claimed  largely  by  Geor 
gia — was  at  this  time  practically  without  a  govern 
ment.  Spain  had  ceded  it,  with  other  territory,  to  the 
United  States.  There  were  still  Spanish  troops  in  the 
garrisons  at  Natchez  and  Fort  Nogales,  but  Spain's 
claim  to  the  land  was  no  longer  tenable.  Yet  the 
United  States,  itself  a  young,  untried  government,  had 
not  yet  been  able  to  occupy  and  control  its  newly  gotten 
southwest  territory.  General  Wilkinson,  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  army,  writing  at  the  time  to  Captain 
Guion  (uncle  of  Mistress  Wilful  Guion,  Burr's  friend 
of  the  Half-way  House,  whom  he  had  mentioned  to 
David  Batchelor),  in  charge  of  the  troops  designed 
to  enter  and  occupy  the  province,  speaks  of  the  doubt 
ful  tenure  by  which  the  planters  of  the  section  now  held 
their  land  becoming  "a  dangerous  element  of  agitation 
in  the  hands  of  certain  parties  who  must  be  described 
as  enemies  of  their  country,"  and  believes  that  "this 
and  other  arguments  are  being  used  to  persuade  the 
most  influential  class  of  men  in  the  section  to  the  usur 
pation  of  the  right  of  self-government."  That  such  a 
plan  was  contemplated,  and  even  matured  as  to  many 
of  its  details,  is  certain. 

The  scheme  which  Burr  now  chose  to  describe  to  Jes 
sop  was  the  erection  of  this  province  into  a  separate 


38  MISTRESS  JOY 

republic,  which,  if  opportunity  offered,  should  become 
the  Republic.  This  once  established,  Colonel  Burr 
hinted  at  greater  opportunities  for  power.  He  touched 
upon  the  success  of  Bonaparte's  military  despotism, 
which  was  then  preparing  the  world  for  his  grand  coup. 

Jessop  had  never  been  the  man  for  a  desperate  ven 
ture  ;  his  nature  was  too  pleasure-loving  and  too  incon 
sequent.  His  fortunes  were  now,  however,  at  that  ebb 
where  they  cried  out  for  a  new  tide.  But  he  was  sick 
and  peevish,  and  he  pushed  aside  Burr's  most  alluring 
pictures  to  dilate  on  his  own  pains  and  necessities. 

The  exquisite  adroitness  with  which  Jessop's  tempter 
withdrew  any  suggestion  that  seemed  to  be  unpleasing, 
substituted  something  more  attractive,  bent  to  the  pa 
tient's  opinions  or  desires,  only  to  arouse  other  emo 
tions  which  might  serve  his  own  turn,  cajoled,  flattered, 
inflamed  and  half  irritated  his  desired  tool,  showed, 
indeed,  a  past  master  of  his  art. 

All  that  was  wilful,  selfish,  base,  licentious  in  Jes 
sop's  being  was  brought  uppermost.  Burr's  tactful 
hints  played  about  his  mind  like  a  light,  veering  breeze, 
but  they  blew  always  upon  the  sullen  embers  of  resent 
ment  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  this  poor  bankrupt's 
soul.  Surely  coals  were  there  which  might  be  fanned 
to  a  destructive  blaze. 

And  yet,  occasionally,  this  man,  born  so  close  to  the 
purple  that  Burr's  schemes  seemed  petty  to  him,  saw 
that  he  was  being  used,  and  resented  it.  Torn  by 
many  conflicts,  not  the  least  among  them  an  unrecog 
nized  appeal  from  the  life  he  had  seen  and  been  a  part 
of  in  the  house  of  Tobias  Valentine,  he  turned  finally 
on  his  side  and  cried  out  sharply :  "Well,  well,  Colonel 
Burr,  I  '11  think  of  these  things !  Let  me  sleep  now, 
an  't  please  you." 

The  smiling  patience  with  which  Burr  accepted 
this  check  was  thoroughly  characteristic  of  the  man. 


MISTRESS  JOY  39 

"Surely,"  he  acquiesced;  "let  me  read  you  to  sleep. 
Greek  is  like  falling  water  or  rumbling  winds.  'T  is 
monstrous  soothing  to  the  ear  that  's  weary  of  too  sig 
nificant  English." 

Taking  the  little  leather-bound  volume,  he  selected 
his  chapter,  and,  giving  the  rolling  words  in  a  sort 
of  monotone,  read  till  he  saw  the  tired  eyes  closing. 
And  Jessop's  last  waking  thought  bracketed  him  with 
Father  Tobias  and  Joy  as  the  kindest  and  most  consid 
erate  of  friends. 

But  Burr  knew  well,  as  he  sat  studying  the  man's 
sleeping  face,  that  the  seed  he  had  sown,  though  cov 
ered  now  by  forgetfulness,  was  fallen  on  productive 
soil. 


CHAPTER  V 

JHE  flush  of  resentment  still  lay  on  her 
clear,  pale  skin,  when  Joyce  turned 
away  from  the  sick  man  and  his  vol 
untary  attendant.  The  dark  gray 
eyes,  which  as  a  rule  gazed  abroad  on 
the  world  with  a  fearless  directness, 
held  a  preoccupied  look.  She  was 
bound  for  the  place  of  worship,  but  she  was  in  no  wor 
shiping  mood. 

Pastor  Valentine,  in  his  broad-rimmed  soft  hat  and 
Quakerish  garments,  stepped  a  trifle  ahead,  for  it  was 
close  upon  meeting-time.  He  carried  his  Bible  and 
prayer-book,  and  offered  to  take  the  lunch-basket 
which,  on  bright  days  when  the  weather  was  sufficiently 
warm,  was  a  part  of  the  church  accoutrement,  but  Joy 
refused,  and  herself  carried  it.  With  all  her  impulse 
and  enthusiasm,  she  had  an  unhurried  walk.  She 
never  lagged ;  her  step  gave  an  impression  of  sureness, 
but  it  was  without  haste. 

After  her,  his  gun  across  his  shoulder,  stalked  Man- 
teo,  with  stolid  face,  but  with  an  eye  keen  to  discover 
any  lurking  peril. 

At  the  bottom  of  Joy's  mind  lay  a  questioning  un 
rest,  induced  by  Jessop's  attitude  toward  her  and  his 
words.  Entirely  unused  to  contact  with  such  a  mind 
as  this,  she  was  bewildered  by  his  light  outlook  upon 
life.  Before  her,  life  had  been  spread,  a  serious  thing. 
She  regarded  it  as  a  journey  wherein  the  strongest 

40 


MISTRESS  JOY  41 

must  faint  unless  upheld  by  divine  grace.  Could  it  be 
that  there  was  somewhere  a  world  peopled  with  men 
and  women  like  the  man  yonder,  who  laughed  and 
made  merry  over  light  things,  unmindful  of  the  dread 
payment  which  must  be  made  in  a  time  to  come  ? 

She  allowed,  in  her  crude  young  soul,  that  eternal 
damnation  was  justly  the  portion  of  such,  yet  under 
neath  it  all  there  was  a  feeling  of  kinship  with  this 
world  of  laughter  and  enjoyment.  She  sighed.  Jes- 
sop  had  been  shown  to  her  in  sorry  guise.  She  was 
not  sure  even  that,  had  she  seen  him  back  in  that 
world  to  which  he  belonged,  she  would  have  admired 
and  cared  for  him;  and  yet  there  is  to  a  girl  always 
a  charm,  a  something  unforgetable,  about  the  first  man. 
who,  breaking  through  her  virgin  reserve,  assailing  the 
holy  of  holies  in  her  pure,  ignorant  heart,  dares  speak 
to  her  of  love. 

The  three  had  been  moving  for  some  time  toward 
the  little  house  of  worship,  set  in  the  midst  of  a  cane- 
brake  on  the  banks  of  the  great  southern  Mississippi. 
Each  felt  proprietorship  in  the  tiny  church.  Tobias 
Valentine  had  gone  in  among  the  canes,  and  with  his 
own  hand  had  hewn  and  builded  this  first  Methodist 
chapel  in  the  province.  His  love  for  the  little  log 
building  was  reverent,  humble,  but  as  tender  and  en 
during  as  that  of  a  father  for  his  helpless  first-born. 
It  represented  the  first-fruits  of  his  hopes — indepen 
dence  to  "worship  God  according  to  the  dictates  of  his 
own  conscience."  It  stood  to  him  in  his  time  for  all , 
that  this  great  Commonwealth  of  America  stands  for 
to  the  men  of  to-day. 

To  Joyce  it  was  a  visible  reminder  of  that  which  she 
was  striving  to  attain  in  her  spiritual  life;  it  was  pre 
cious,  too,  with  the  labor  of  her  old  father's  toil-worn 
hands,  and  as  the  building  came  in  sight  the  clouds 
left  her  face. 


42  MISTRESS  JOY 

Little  parties  of  two  and  three  were  overtaking,  pass 
ing,  or  following  them  as  they  walked.  These  were 
mainly  young  mothers  and  fathers,  each  pair  with  a  nu 
merous  brood  of  children  about  them.  The  old  people 
were  few,  and  the  young  men  and  women  walked 
apart,  concerned  with  affairs  of  their  own.  The  blue- 
gray  homespun,  dyed  by  the  housewives  themselves 
with  native  indigo,  was  worn  by  both  men  and  women. 
The  color  appeared  in  wool  and  hemp  and  the  new 
cotton,  which  was  then  beginning  to  be  woven  exten 
sively,  so  that  Pastor  Valentine's  congregation  looked 
almost  like  a  company  of  Quakers.  The  women's  skirts 
were  short,  and  they  wore  heavy  leathern  shoes,  show 
ing  broad,  low  heels,  for  there  was  mud  to  be  tramped 
through.  No  fluttering  ribbons  were  in  view,  nothing 
anywhere  quite  so  bright  as  Joy's  rebellious  locks.  The 
discipline  of  the  early  Methodist  Society  permitted  the 
wearing  of  no  gauds  calculated  to  minister  to  the  lusts 
of  the  flesh  as  represented  by  a  craving  for  beauty. 

And  yet,  where  purity  and  peace  abide,  poor  chidden 
beauty  will  slip  in,  though  you  make  a  stepchild  of  her. 
The  prim  white  kerchiefs  were  folded  about  necks 
almost  as  white.  The  demure  down-dropping  of 
young,  bright  eyes  only  served  to  display  long,  curled 
lashes,  and  the  gray  homespun  set  off  excellently  well 
many  a  fresh,  young,  round  cheek  that  needed  no  rouge 
added  to  the  roses  already  abloom  upon  it. 

The  young  men  and  girls,  though  holding  a  little 
apart  from  their  elders,  did  not  walk  together;  the 
girls  went  two  and  two,  and  the  young  men,  singly  or 
in  squads,  followed  them  a  trifle  sheepishly. 

There  was  no  unseemly  love-making  at  these  primi 
tive  meetings,  but  was  ever  temple  erected  to  any  god 
which  could  quite  bar  out  the  little  blind  deity  of  the 
bow  and  quiver? 

Two  women,  one  tall  almost  to  the  stature  of  a 


GOING    TO    CHURCH. 


MISTRESS  JOY  43 

man,  the  other  evidently  her  daughter,  fair,  slight  and 
young,  overtook  Father  Tobias's  party,  and  joined 
them,  with  the  usual  Sabbath  greetings. 

The  tall  woman,  who  was  spoken  to  as  Sister  Longa- 
necker,  looked  sad  reproach  at  the  little  basket  Joy 
was  carrying.  She  considered  it  her  own  especial 
and  blessed  privilege  to  feed  the  pastor  with  material 
food,  even  as  he  fed  her  with  spiritual  bread.  "Now, 
Joyce,"  she  lamented,  in  a  small,  cooing  voice  which 
mismatched  her  great  form,  but  accorded  comically 
with  the  matter  of  her  speech,  "I  hold  it  most  unkind 
that  ye  bring  food  for  your  good  father.  I  have  a 
pasty  here ;  't  was  made  for  him,  and  I  put  a  prayer  in 
with  every  bird.  The  crust  is  as  melting  as  love  it 
self."  She  cast  a  most  affectionate  glance  at  Father 
Tobias's  unresponsive,  absent-minded  old  back,  as  he 
strode  ahead,  already  conning  the  words  he  was  to 
speak. 

The  young  girl,  Patience  Longanecker,  interrupted 
Joyce,  plucking  her  by  the  sleeve  and  whispering:  "O 
Joyce!  is  it  a  young  man  who  is  sick  at  your  house, 
and  is  he  well  favored?" 

The  lines  of  Joy's  red  lips  were  as  prim  as  though 
no  unspiritual  thoughts  had  ever  invaded  her  own  Sab 
bath  musings.  "Patience,"  she  said  reprovingly,  "do 
you  remember  what  day  this  is?  We  are  going  to 
meeting,"  whereupon  Patience  dropped  her  eyes  and 
sighed.  She  was  a  dear  little  gossip,  and  she  did  long 
to  be  able  to  tell  all  the  other  girls  just  what  color  the 
stranger's  eyes  wTere,  and  what  wonderful  things  he 
had  said  to  Joyce  Valentine. 

The  party  walked  on  in  seemly  quiet.  Near  the 
church  door  a  huddled  heap  among  the  canes  beside 
the  path  unrolled  itself,  stood  erect,  and  displayed  the 
shriveled  face  of  a  very  old  squaw.  "Good  day,  Mas- 
sawippa,"  spoke  Father  Tobias.  "God  be  with  you," 


44  MISTRESS   JOY 

and  Manteo  greeted  her  with  a  low-uttered  guttural, 
evidently  in  her  own  tongue. 

The  old  woman's  bleared  eyes  turned  adoringly  upon 
the  girl.  Joy,  putting  out  her  hand  to  take  the  with 
ered  and  shaking  one,  drew  the  trembling  creature  for 
ward,  and  said  :  "Now,  Sister  Longanecker,  if  it  pleases 
you,  I  will  bestow  my  evening  lunch  on  Massawippa, 
and  Father  Tobias  shall  eat  your  pasty." 

Manteo  turned,  with  a  contemptuous  glance  at  the 
newcomer.  "What  Manteo  eat?"  he  inquired,  point 
edly.  And  as  Sister  Longanecker's  bountiful  affection 
did  not  appear  to  reach  so  far,  he  was  directed,  to  his 
great  disgust,  to  share  the  basket  with  Massawippa. 

The  bleak,  gray  meeting-place  stood  like  a  pale  sil 
houette  against  a  reeded  background.  For  miles  an 
almost  unbroken  cane-brake,  or  thicket,  spread  along 
the  river's  edge.  When  Tobias  Valentine  chose  a  site 
for  his  house  of  worship  the  thick,  impenetrable  bul 
wark  of  these  slender  columns  commended  the  spot  for 
his  purpose. 

To  the  eye  accustomed  to  the  broken,  ornate  archi 
tecture  of  the  old  world,  this  little  squared  block  was 
as  bare,  unlovely,  and  undesirable  as  was  to  the  church 
man  the  creed  which  called  for  it.  Its  low  windows 
looked  out  unwinkingly,  searching  the  thickets  for  foes. 
More  than  once  it  had  been  the  object  of  Indian  at 
tacks,  and  the  doors  were  made  thick  and  strong. 
There  were  great  inside  shutters,  loopholed  for  guns, 
with  poles  beside  them,  that  they  might  be  propped  at 
need.  It  was  an  outlying  spiritual  stronghold,  and  a 
physical  fort  as  well,  patiently  prepared  for  defense 
along  both  lines. 

Joyce  and  the  others  stepped  inside.  Sister  Longa 
necker  detained  Pastor  Valentine  in  earnest  conversa 
tion  a  little  apart.  The  old  man's  saintly  face  took  on 
an  expression  of  deep  distress. 


MISTRESS  JOY  45 

"Oh,  no,"  he  remonstrated,  "sister,  surely  not,  surely 
not." 

"But  I  tell  ye,"  cooed  Sister  Longanecker's  dove- 
like  whispering  tones,  "  't  is  like  to  bring  scandal  upon 
the  Society." 

"I  think  less  of  that,"  returned  Father  Tobias,  "than 
that  it  may  bring  sorrow  to  the  child  herself." 

"She  hath  need  of  it,"  returned  Sister  Longanecker, 
energetically.  "  'Woe  be  to  him  by  whom  offense 
cometh !'  We  must  keep  ourselves  unspotted  from  the 
world.  Though  I  myself  have  been  a  widow  many 
years,  I  warrant  me  there  is  no  gallant  gay  nor  fine 
enough  to  tempt  me  to  bring  scandal  upon  the  Society." 

Father  Tobias's  misty  eyes  smiled  faintly  upon  her 
iron  visage.  "Nay,"  he  said,  "sister,  we  all  know 
that."  And  when  he  smiled  so,  one  saw  how  like,  with 
all  their  differences,  were  his  features  and  Joy's. 

Once  in  the  pulpit,  or  behind  the  poor  little  pine 
table  which  served  for  pulpit,  the  world  was  shut  away 
from  Tobias  Valentine.  He  was  in  a  place  of  white 
light,  and  those  before  him  were  embodied  souls  for 
whose  salvation  he  was  responsible.  One  was  no 
greate'r  than  another.  At  such  times  Joy's  soul  was 
not  more  precious  to  him  than  that  of  Sister  Longa 
necker.  They  were  all  his  debt  to  God,  to  be  striven 
for  strenuously,  to  be  weighed  in  the  scale  lovingly. 
The  responsibility  of  their  salvation  was  heavy  upon 
his  heart. 

The  benches  in  that  little  meeting-house  were  back 
less.  A  cushion — the  mere  thought  of  one,  could  this 
latter  have  been  detected — would  have  brought  a  mem 
ber  under  discipline.  The  women  sat  in  orderly  rows, 
eager,  intent  and  untiring,  listening  while  Father  To 
bias  spoke  to  them  for  one  long  hour  and  a  half.  The 
children — divine  grace  is  not  applicable  to  babies,  and 
the  doctrine  of  original  sin  is  amply  exemplified  in 


46  MISTRESS  JOY 

many  of  them — writhed  and  squirmed.  Those  old 
enough,  were  sternly  repressed.  Their  small,  rough 
shod  feet  swung  off  the  floor.  When  too  sleepy,  their 
poor  little  heads  nodded,  and  occasionally  they  tumbled 
head  and  heels  to  the  planks,  making  a  small  diversion. 
The  tyrants  who  were  younger,  and  therefore  less 
amenable,  expressed  their  disapproval  openly  and 
loudly.  They  were  sometimes  fed  surreptitiously  under 
a  shoulder  cape,  or,  if  the  disturbance  continued  until 
Father  Tobias's  gentle  gaze  began  to  wander  in  their 
direction  too  frequently,  they  were  carried  outside  and 
hushed. 

The  men  and  women  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
room.  Joy  was  on  the  front  bench  of  the  women's 
side,  and  Batchelor  on  the  front  bench  on  the  men's 
side.  A  choir  would  have  been  an  abomination,  but 
these  two  strong  young  voices  were  useful  in  holding 
the  singers  together. 

Joyce  had  heard  so  many  sermons  in  her  short  life 
that  her  mind  wandered  a  bit  during  the  discourse,  and 
occupied  itself  with  its  own  concerns.  She  mused 
deeply  and  long  upon  the  matter  of  Jessop's  salvation. 
Would  the  blessed  privilege  be  theirs  of  converting  the 
stranger  within  their  gates?  Oh,  might  they  snatch 
his  soul  as  a  brand  from  the  burning? 

Here  she  was  suddenly  recalled  to  her  surroundings 
by  the  conclusion  of  Father  Tobias's  seventhly  with  a 
sonorous  "Amen."  After  a  pause  the  preacher's  voice 
began  again:  "Now,  brothers  and  sisters,  I  have  to 
speak  to  you  of  a  matter  which  hath  been  brought  to 
my  notice  this  morning."  Sister  Longanecker  settled 
herself  complacently  to  hear  administered  the  reproof 
for  which  she  had  asked. 

"It  hath  been  suggested  to  me  that  one  member  of 
this  Society  may  bring  scandal  upon  the  whole  So 
ciety.  I  desire  to  ask  your  prayers — "  there  was  a 


MISTRESS  JOY  47 

little  hesitation,  and  he  added — "for  that  one  who  made 
this  suggestion  to  me." 

Sister  Longanecker  bent  her  head  and  wept.  She 
had  not  the  grace  of  artistic  grief.  Her  sobs  consider 
ably  resembled  bleats,  and  it  became  evident  to  the 
whole  congregation  for  whom  their  petitions  were  re 
quested. 

"We  are  here,  my  brethren  and  sisters,  a  little  hand 
ful  of  the  faithful  in  a  far  land,"  the  pastor  continued. 
"There  are  hostile  savages  about  us,  and  wild  beasts 
in  the  forests.  Even  as  we  live  in  daily  fear  of  these, 
so  God  ordains  that  we  are  set  in  a  place  of  fear  from 
unseen  spiritual  foes.  The  painted  savages  of  envy 
and  malice  and  uncharitableness  lurk  for  our  immortal 
souls,  even  as  we  have  seen  the  painted  savages  lurk 
in  these  cane-brakes  to  harm  our  perishing  bodies. 
The  wild  beasts  of  doubt  and  sin  will  rend  the  immor 
tal  part,  quite  as  surely  as  the  panther  or  the  wolf  may 
strike  one  of  us  down  in  the  forests. 

"What  do  we  do  against  the  savages  and  wild 
beasts  ?  We  band  together.  What  shall  we  do  against 
these  subtler  and  more  dreadful  foes?"  He  looked 
wistfully  and  long  at  the  faces  before  him  ere  he  an 
swered  his  own  question.  Then  he  concluded  gently : 
"To  be  strong  against  all  these  'foes  within,'  let  us  keep 
fully  Christ's  command,  'That  we  love  one  another.' ' 

And,  raising  his  hands,  he  blessed  and  dismissed 
them. 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOUGH  services  at  the  little  meeting 
house  were  to  last  all  day,  Joyce, 
having  gotten  her  freedom  to  hear 
the  morning  sermon  only  through 
Burr's  courteous  offer  to  stay  dur 
ing  that  time  with  the  patient,  set 
forth  on  her  return  immediately  they 
were  dismissed. 

The  day  was  warm  and  bright.  Only  a  touch  of 
frost  at  morning  and  evening  marked  the  approach  of 
winter.  Cloths  were  being  spread  in  the  open,  baskets 
unpacked,  and  women  went  to  and  fro  preparing  for  a 
noon  lunch.  David  Batchelor  joined  Joy  as  she  turned 
toward  home.  "May  I  walk  with  you,  Mistress  Valen 
tine?"  he  asked. 

Joy  accepted  his  company  gladly.  Since  she  could 
remember,  David  Batchelor  had  been  one  of  the  pleas 
ant  and  stable  facts  of  her  existence.  It  was  a  relief, 
in  the  vague  unrest  which  followed  Jessop's  disquiet 
ing  words,  to  turn  to  Batchelor's  kindness,  which  made 
no  demand. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  frankness  of  the  girl's 
nature  that  she  spoke  to  him  at  once  of  Jessop.  "You 
think  he  is  a  gentleman,  do  you  not?"  she  inquired. 

"A  gentleman,  Mistress  Joyce?  Truly,  yes;  the  man 
is  of  gentle  blood." 

"Sister  Longanecker,"  hesitated  Joy,  with  troubled 
eyes,  "holds  it  like  that  Master  Jessop — she  doth  not 

48 


believe  his  name  to  be  Jessop — is  some  great  lord  or 
rich  man  who  hath  committed  a  crime  and  is  fleeing 
from  the  authorities.  What  think  you  of  that,  Master 
Batchelor?  Is  it  like?" 

"To  my  mind,  not  more  likely,"  returned  David, 
"than  that  the  man  is  innocent  of  all  fault,  save  that 
one  fault  which  is  very  great  in  the  eyes  of  some — 
misfortune." 

Joy  nodded. 

"He  may  have  come  from  England,"  continued 
Batchelor,  "like  many  another  young  blade,  with  much 
wealth  and  little  wisdom.  We  can  see  with  no  trouble 
he  hath  lost  the  first.  I  think  we  should  all  pray  that 
he  may  be  vouchsafed  the  second.  In  God's  name,  if 
we  be  indeed  God's  people,  let  us  think  no  evil  until 
evil  be  proven." 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  England?"  inquired  Joy,  a 
little  curiously. 

"Oh,  the  Testament,  and  the  man's  speech  and  bear 
ing — it  seems  like  that  he  is  an  Englishman  of  rank." 

This  brought  them  to  the  doorway.  David  entered 
with  her,  and  after  a  little  conversation  among  the 
three  men,  while  Joy  was  absent  at  her  household 
duties,  Burr  and  Batchelor  made  their  adieux,  and 
started  on  the  Washington  Road  northward  along  the 
river.  Burr's  horse  had  been  tied  to  a  sapling  in  the 
grove  near  the  cabin,  but,  out  of  courtesy  to  his  com 
panion,  he  forbore  to  mount  it. 

"Pray  ride,  Colonel  Burr,"  suggested  the  other.  "I 
can  easily  keep  pace  with  your  horse." 

"Nay,"  returned  Burr ;  "we  will  converse  more  pleas 
antly  if  both  walk,  and  I  find  your  conversation  of 
much  interest,  Master  Batchelor.  You  know  this 
country  and  these  people  as  no  man  I  have  yet  encoun 
tered  knows  them." 

The  flattery  was  received  with  a  grave  bow.  "I  am 
4 


50  MISTRESS  JOY 

much  interested  in  the  English-speaking  people  here 
about,"  continued  Burr.  "Particularly  am  I  curious 
regarding  your  own  sect.  You  are,  after  all,  a  Metho 
dist,  are  you  not;  Master  Batchelor?" 

"Why,  yes,"  answered  Batchelor,  with  his  quiet 
smile;  "I  trust  I  have  method  in  all  things." 

Burr  was  slightly  taken  aback.  "Judge  Bruin  tells 
me,"  he  began  once  more,  "that  you  are  much  con 
cerned  just  now  in  matters  military." 

"I  am,"  returned  Batchelor,  "or  I  have  been.  Here 
we  are  subject,  as  you  know,  to  continual  uprisings  of 
the  Indians.  The  blacks,  so  far  from  affording  pro 
tection,  are  themselves  a  source  of  anxiety.  And  now 
that  Spain  no  longer  rightfully  possesses,  and  yet  will 
not  relinquish  the  land,  our  condition  is  bad — promis 
ing  worse.  It  appeared  to  me  that  a  man  who  had 
leisure  to  do  so  should  fit  himself  to  train  a  militia  com 
pany,  and  when  I  found  the  time  I  went  to  Fort  Rosalie 
and  did  fit  myself,  as  best  I  might,  to  instruct  my 
neighbors  in  the  art  of  war." 

"A  man  of  your  qualities,"  suggested  Burr,  "a  natu 
ral  leader  of  men,  as  I  conceive  you  to  be,  would  enjoy 
such  positions  as  give  power  while  entailing  respon 
sibility." 

"Why,  no,"  corrected  Batchelor,  quietly.  "I  cannot 
say,  Colonel  Burr,  that  I  seek  or  anticipate  any  enjoy 
ment  in  the  matter.  I  am,  as  you  know,  a  planter, 
a  tiller  of  the  soil.  It  is  my  ambition  to  breed  better 
stock,  to  raise  finer  crops  than  another,  to  adjust  myself 
more  nearly  to  understand  Nature  as  she  reveals  her 
self  here  in  this  new  country,  but  not,  I  believe,  to  be 
come,  as  you  suggest,  a  leader  of  men." 

"I  find  I  must  reclass  you  in  my  mental  register. 
You  are,  meseems,  in  your  present  humor,  a  modern 
Timon." 

"  'T  is  like  this,"  explained  Batchelor,  "God  made 


MISTRESS   JOY  51 

man,  and  God  made  the  cattle.  I  have  worked  with 
cattle  all  my  life,  and  now  for  some  months  I  have 
been  driving  men.  I  find  them,  as  you  must  admit, 
who  have  handled  both  men  and  cattle — horses,  at  least 
— considerably  alike.  I  think  it  no  harm  to  prefer  the 
society  of  the  cattle.  They  are  both  God's  creatures, 
and  the  cattle  and  the  crops  leave  my  mind  freer  to 
its  own  workings  than  the  society  of  mankind." 

Burr  laughed,  and  professed  to  treat  the  statement 
as  a  sarcasm. 

"Nay,  I  meant  it  not  unkindly,"  supplemented 
Batchelor.  "This  country  is  my  country,  these  people 
are  my  people.  I  have  cast  in  my  lot  among  them  for 
good  and  all,  and  especially  with  the  Society  of  Metho 
dists,  though  I  have  not  joined  them,  their  creed  being 
somewhat  strait,  or  I,  perchance,  a  trifle  broad.  I  hold 
no  grudge  against  any  man  or  any  company  of  men, 
and  my  interest  is  not  limited  to  my  own  plantation 
and  its  belongings." 

Midway  the  slope  of  Half-way  Hill,  on  the  road 
between  Washington  and  Natchez,  stood  the  cottage 
of  a  widow,  a  gentlewoman  from  Virginia,  with 
one  beautiful  daughter — Mistress  Wilful  Guion.  The 
younger  woman  was,  through  a  combination  of  cir 
cumstances,  a  probationer  in  Pastor  Valentine's  little 
band ;  the  mother  was  a  Catholic.  The  marked  beauty 
of  the  daughter,  the  aristocratic  appearance  of  the 
mother,  the  fact  that  their  fortune,  though  modest, 
permitted  them  to  live  without  work,  set  them  rather 
apart  in  that  sturdy  little  homespun  group.  Their 
place,  a  little,  picturesque  cottage,  was  called,  because 
of  its  position  on  the  hillside,  "The  Half-way  House." 

As  David  Batchelor  and  his  companion  neared  its 
gateway,  Burr  lifted  his  hat  in  adieu.  "I  stop  here, 
Master  Batchelor,"  he  said.  "I  believe  your  own  place 
is  further  on?" 


52  MISTRESS  JOY 

"I  shall  take  great  pleasure  in  welcoming-  you  there, 
sir,  when  your  convenience  serves  you  to  visit  'The 
Meadows,'"  answered  Batchelor,  formally;  and  he 
added :  "Mistress  Guion  is  ill.  Her  daughter  bade 
me  carry  the  news  to  Master  Valentine  this  morning 
as  an  excuse  for  her  own  non-appearance  at  the 
meeting." 

"I  had  heard  of  her  illness,"  returned  Burr,  "and  I 
thought  to  call  and  inquire  if  there  were  aught  in  which 
I  could  serve  her.  Methinks  that  is  Mistress  Wilful 
at  the  casement  now."  Again  he  lifted  his  hat  and 
bowed.  The  girl,  blushing  and  smiling,  came  from 
the  window  to  the  open  doorway,  and  seemed  to  hesi 
tate  whether  or  not  she  should  walk  down  the  pathway 
toward  them.  It  was  evident  to  Batchelor  that  Burr's 
visit  was  by  appointment.  There  was  to  him  a  sugges 
tion  that  the  mother's  illness  was  but  a  pretext  to  shield 
her  daughter  from  the  gossip  which  even  now  coupled 
her  name  with  Burr's. 

At  sight  of  the  waiting  figure  the  colonel's  hand 
some  face  glowed,  in  spite  of  his  pretended  noncha 
lance.  Batchelor  paused  long  enough  to  speak  to  Wil 
ful,  offering  any  assistance  possible  in  case  her  mother 
should  be  wrorse,  and  then  went  gravely  on  his  way. 

Looking  back,  he  saw  that  the  girl  had  stepped 
through  the  wicket;  Burr,  with  his  horse's  bridle  still 
over  his  arm,  was  walking,  beside  her,  back  and  forth 
in  front  of  the  cottage.  They  were  talking  earnestly ; 
both  heads  were  bent,  and  something  in  the  attitude  of 
the  slim,  girlish  form,  which  seemed  to  lean  toward 
that  of  her  cavalier,  and  yet  to  shrink  with  a  kind  of 
timorous  panic,  knocked  loudly  at  his  heart  for  sym 
pathy. 

His  own  conversation  with  Burr  had  resembled  the 
playing  of  a  light  and  gracious  wind  about  a  granite 
cliff,  yet  now  that  the  wind  was  wooing  a  rose  there 


MISTRESS  JOY  =  : 

V.-2.5  a  rr.lshrv  c:rrerer.:t.      H::    E.:u:htrr.    :r~_c5    !'•: 


he    said 

through^ 
hourly. 
hawks,  a 


CHAPTER  VII 

[OLONEL  BURR  saw  surprisingly  lit 
tle  of  the  invalid  during  that  call 
which  was  made  avowedly  upon  her. 
It  was  the  girl,  in  blooming  health, 
who  occupied  an  unconscionable 
amount  of  his  time.  But,  returning, 
he  found  his  head  filled,  not  with  im 
ages  of  sweet  Wilful  Guion ;  that  busy  brain  swarmed, 
instead,  with  queries  and  vague  conjectures  concerning 
the  man  who  was,  even  then,  thinking  of  him. 

Batchelor's  rather  ponderous  poise  was  in  such  broad 
contrast  to  the  petulant  weakness  of  Jessop  that  Burr 
sighed  impatiently.  "If  a  man  could  only  come  by 
the  proper  tools,"  he  muttered,  "all  would  swim  easy. 
This  fellow  Batchelor — he  would  have  made  a  good 
king  of  the  stalwart  persuasion,  in  the  days  when  a 
king  won  and  kept  his  throne  by  his  own  physical 
prowess  as  well  as  mental  balance  and  ascendancy — he 
is  not  to  be  lightly  won  to  anything;  but  the  case  is 
not  hopeless,  I  have  ciphered  harder  sums.  I  will  see 
more  of  him." 

Later,  at  Judge  Bruin's  table,  he  brought  the  con 
versation  around  to  the  object  of  his  personal  interest. 
"David  Batchelor,  sir,"  replied  the  judge  to  his  in 
quiry,  "is  one  of  the  finest  men  God  ever  made — one 
of  the  very  finest,  Methodist  or  no  Methodist,  sir.  He 
will  take  his  rank  in  this  community,  and  he  will  leave 

54 


MISTRESS  JOY  55 

his  mark  on  this  community,  and  this  community  is 
the  better  for  his  having  lived  in  it." 

"He  struck  me,"  returned  Burr,  "as  a  man  born  con 
siderably  above  the  station  which  he  at  present  chooses 
for  himself." 

"His  birth  is  good,  sir,"  said  the  judge ;  "how  good, 
I  do  not  know.  You  would  never  surprise  me  if  you 
told  me  his  blood  was  royal,  and  I  should  not  think  the 
less  of  him  if  I  learned  he  was  the  son  of  a  peasant. 
'T  is  the  man  himself  who  counts,  and  counts  high, 
among  us." 

"What  was  his  business  in  Mexico?"  inquired  Burr. 
"He  mentioned  to  me  that  he  had  been  there." 

"Cotton,"  answered  the  judge,  laconically.  "If  this  is 
ever  a  cotton-growing  country, — and  some  of  us  think 
it  will  be  the  cotton-growing  section  of  the  whole  land, 
— it  will  be  largely  owing  to  David  Batchelor.  The  first 
cotton  we  got  here  was  from  Georgia.  When  Batche 
lor  heard  there  was  better  seed  to  be  had  in  Jamaica, 
he  went  over  there.  He  is  a  man  of  means,  and  foot 
loose.  The  Jamaica  cotton — you  remember  it,  Burr — 
I  raised  it  extensively.  It  was  the  black-seeded.  Good 
fiber,  fine  staple,  and  we  did  well  with  it  until  it  began 
to  have  the  rot.  If  Batchelor  had  not  been  a  man  of 
means  he  would  have  been  ruined  by  the  rot,  for  the 
year  in  which  it  appeared  every  acre  he  had  was  in 
cotton.  Some  of  the  planters  then  put  in  the  green- 
seeded  Cumberland  cotton — inferior,  short-staple  stuff. 
It  did  not  rot;  but,  faith,  I  had  so  little  pride  in  it, 
I  was  willing  it  should." 

"Master  Batchelor,  then,  as  I  understand  it,"  in 
quired  Burr,  "was  seeking  a  rot-proof  cotton  in 
Mexico?" 

"He  was,"  replied  the  judge.  "You  asked  me  about 
Batchelor's  birth  and  antecedents.  All  I  know  of  them 
is  that  he  had  such  influence  in  high  quarters  as  pro- 


56  MISTRESS  JOY 

cured  him  letters  which,  carried  to  Mexico,  got  him 
the  friendship  of  the  viceroy.  He  was  dining  at  the 
viceregal  table  when  he  stated  his  mission,  and  re 
quested  leave  to  take  back  with  him  some  of  the  Mex 
ican  cotton-seed.  The  viceroy,  however  complaisant, 
was  helpless  in  the  matter.  'T  was  after  the  treaty  of 
San  Lorenzo,  by  which  Spain  ceded  this  province  to  the 
United  States.  The  double-dealing,  grim  old  thief 
hath  never  delivered  up  the  land  to  its  rightful  owners 
— not  to  this  day;  but  the  treaty  was  made  pretext  to 
deny  us  cotton-seed,  on  the  ground  that  Spanish  law 
forbade  its  exportation." 

"But  Batchelor,  I  take  it,"  suggested  Colonel  Burr, 
"is  a  man  to  gain  his  ends.  He  is  not  to  be  balked." 

Judge  Bruin  knit  his  shaggy  white  brows  at  some 
hint  the  words  appeared  to  convey  to  him.  "Only  by 
fair  means,  Colonel  Burr,"  put  in  Mistress  Bruin,  from 
her  end  of  the  table.  "David  Batchelor  is  an  upright 
man  in  all  his  dealings,  though  a  Methodist  and  a  man 
of  uncouth  manner." 

"I  should  not  call  him  uncouth,  Mistress  Bruin," 
objected  the  judge.  "A  self-contained  man,  and  one 
not  so  like  to  take  a  silly  girl's  fancy  as  some  popinjay 
with  one  half  his  sense." 

A  glance  at  prim  young  Mistress  Margaret  Bruin 
revealed  the  fact  that  she  was  blushing.  "Dear  me, 
ma  mdre,  why  did  you  start  father  off  again?  When 
he  is  on  the  subject  of  his  paragon  we  must  all  ap 
plaud." 

"Peg,  be  still!  'Speak  when  you  're  spoken  to.' 
'Children  should  be  seen,  and  not  heard,'  "  remarked 
the  judge,  in  a  rapid  fusillade. 

"There  are  those,"  suggested  Colonel  Burr,  "who 
can  well  afford,  being  seen,  not  to  be  heard." 

Margaret  arose  swiftly,  and,  dropping  a  graceful 
little  curtsy,  murmured  her  thanks. 


MISTRESS  JOY  57 

"It  is  not  best  to  flatter  them  up  too  much,"  grum 
bled  the  judge.  "You  see,  don't  you?  She  is  like 
all  the  others,  and  knows  not  a  good  thing  when 
she  sees  it ;  hath  not  sense  to  appreciate  a  real  man ; 
wants  a  beau  only  fit  to  wear  farthingale  and 
tucker." 

"I  do  not  want  a  beau  at  all,"  protested  poor  Mis 
tress  Peg,  almost  in  tears. 

"Margaret,  you  may  retire,"  suggested  Mistress 
Bruin,  in  a  stately  fashion.  "We  will  leave  the  gen 
tlemen  to  their  wine." 

When  Burr  returned  to  his  seat,  after  bowing  the 
ladies  out,  "About  the  cotton — you  were  saying — ?"  he 
inquired,  with  raised  eyebrows. 

"The  cotton,  yes,"  resumed  the  judge.  "The  vice 
roy  could  not  get  Batchelor  cotton-seed  to  carry  home 
with  him,  but,  as  they  sat  chatting  over  their  wine,  as 
you  and  I  sit  now,  he  jokingly  offered  him  a  collec 
tion  of  Mexican  dolls.  Batchelor  well  understood  the 
offer,  and  thanked  him.  These  dolls  were  stuffed  with 
cotton-seed,  and  the  whole  Natchez  district  is  now  rais 
ing  cotton  from  the  seed  that  was  brought  over  in  the 
puppets." 

"That,  then,  I  understand,  is  the  source  of  his 
means." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  replied  the  judge.  "You 
do  not  know  the  man.  Did  he  trade  upon  the  necessi 
ties  of  the  rest  of  us?  Not  he.  He  was  three  years 
before  he  planted  any  cotton  at  'The  Meadows,'  except 
ing  such  as  was  for  seed  to  give  away  to  his  neighbors. 
He  has  a  competence  outside  his  income  from  the  plan 
tation.  Yet,  had  he  not,  't  is  my  belief  David  Batche 
lor  would  find  a  way  to  do  all  he  does  without  it.  He 
has  brought  over  Scotch  mechanics,  skilled  men  whom 
he  knew  in  the  old  country,  to  work  on  the  perfecting 
of  a  cotton-gin.  His  neighbors,  and  all  comers,  profit 


58  MISTRESS  JOY 

by  any  improvement  he  has  made  upon  the  gin  at  'The 
Meadows.' ' 

"I  was  talking  with  him  this  morning,"  remarked 
Burr,  "of  his  recent  military  duties." 

"And,"  added  Judge  Bruin,  "he  let  you  think  that 
he  learned  all  he  knows  of  war  and  warlike  tactics  over 
at  Fort  Rosalie?" 

"That  did  he,"  replied  Burr. 

The  judge  chuckled.  "  'T  is  like  David.  To  what 
command  or  what  arm  of  the  service  he  may  have  be 
longed  I  know  not,  only  that  he  was  thoroughly 
grounded  in  tactics  when  he  came  to  this  country  I 
know  right  well.  The  instruction  he  had  at  Rosalie 
was  merely  to  polish  up  his  knowledge,  and  also  .to 
learn  what  might  be  learned  of  our  methods  of  war 
fare  with  the  savages  in  this  new  land." 

"Think  you,"  inquired  Burr,  idly,  "that  such  a  man 
as  he  is  like  to  succeed  Master  Valentine  as  pastor  here, 
when  he  weds  the  daughter?" 

"Weds  whose  daughter?"  inquired  Judge  Bruin, 
tartly. 

"I  speak  of  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine.  Methinks 
she  and  Master  Batchelor  are  both  unusual  persons  for 
their  class,  and  't  would  be  a  suitable  match,  eh, 
judge?" 

The  old  man's  choleric  countenance  flushed  darkly. 
"God's  blood !  Colonel  Burr,  a  man  would  think,  to 
hear  ye  prate  of  classes  and  the  like,  we  had  treach 
erous  aristocrats  in  the  nation's  councils.  Congress 
hath  abolished  classes.  There  are  no  classes,  sir.  All 
men  be  free  and  equal  before  God." 

Burr  smiled  quietly  as  he  soothed  the  old  man's 
passion  with  plausible  explanations.  He  had  gotten 
the  information  he  desired.  Judge  Bruin,  it  appeared, 
was  a  hearty  supporter  of  the  United  States  govern 
ment,  and  a  whole-souled  believer  in  all  it  stood  for. 


MISTRESS  JOY  59 

"You  talk  of  classes,"  the  judge  went  on;  "look  at 
Tobias  Valentine.  A  man  as  well  born  as  you  or 
I — better,  perchance — he  leaves  country,  friends,  re 
nounces  even  his  fortune — his  connections  are  all 
wealthy  men,  Colonel  Burr,  men  of  substance.  He 
comes  here  into  the  wilderness  and  labors  among  our 
people  for  their  betterment.  Oh,  he  is  a  Dissenter,  a 
Methodist,  I  grant  ye;  but  even  the  Spaniards  respect 
him,  and  I  say  that  when  we  sit  up  at  our  tables  and 
prate  of  class  regarding  such  a  man  as  that  we  are 
damned  aristocrats,  sir,  damned  aristocrats — no  less !" 
and  he  banged  an  emphatic  hand  upon  the  board. 

The  entrance  of  a  negro  interrupted  Burr's  reply. 
"Massa  Valentine,"  announced  Cassius,  in  some  ex 
citement.  "He  say,  mightly  'ticklar.  Mus'  I  bring 
'im  in?"  Judge  Bruin  nodded. 

In  answer  to  some  sudden  alarm  which  was  in  the 
air,  both  men  arose  and  stood  confronting  Father  To 
bias  with  anxious  faces  as  he  entered.  Having  greeted 
them  and  made  his  apologies  for  visiting  upon  the 
sacred  Sabbath  day,  the  preacher  seemed  for  the  first 
time  to  note  the  unusual  excitement  of  both.  "You 
have  already  heard  my  news?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Nay,"  replied  Judge  Bruin,  "what  is  it?  Have  the 
negroes  risen?" 

And  Burr  in  the  same  breath  asked :  "Is  it  the  Span 
ish?  Is  it  the  Indians?"  And  thus  were  voiced  the 
triune  terrors  of  the  Southwest  of  that  day. 

"'T  is  not  immediate,"  returned  Father  Tobias; 
"  't  is  rumor  only,  but  I  thought  well  to  come  at  once." 

"Be  seated,  Master  Valentine,"  said  the  judge.  He 
beckoned  a  negro,  and  bade  him  place  a  glass  of  wine, 
which  Father  Tobias  declined.  The  three  men  then 
settled  themselves  at  the  board  for  their  conference. 

"  'T  is  the  old  squaw,  Massawippa,"  began  the 
visitor. 


60  MISTRESS  JOY 

"She  who  warned  us  last  spring,"  interrupted  Judge 
Bruin,  "in  time  to  prevent  the  slaughter  of  our  hogs 
and  cattle  in  the  outlying  pastures." 

The  other  nodded.  "Massawippa  comes  at  times  to 
our  meeting-house,"  he  went  on,  "and  my  daughter 
Joyce  hath  much  hope  for  the  salvation  of  her  soul." 

It  was  evident  that  the  judge  thought  so  useful  a 
person  as  the  squaw  sure  of  salvation,  heathen  or  no 
heathen;  but  he  repressed  the  words  he  would  have 
spoken  upon  the  subject,  and  Pastor  Valentine  con 
tinued  :  "This  woman  was  at  the  meeting  to-day,  and 
on  her  way  home  she  stopped  at  our  dwelling,  where, 
finding  my  daughter  alone,  she  told  her  there  was  a 
plan  afoot  for  the  Natchez  to  unite  with  the  Chicka- 
saws  and  cross  the  river  here,  going  south  on  a  foray." 

"Then,"  remarked  Burr,  gravely,  "they  will  reach 
us  in  their  full  strength,  and  before  they  have  struck 
a  blow.  Is  the  Spanish  garrison  trustworthy,  think 
you?" 

A  quick,  appreciative  glance  from  both  his  compan 
ions  answered  this  prompt  casting  in  of  his  lot  with 
theirs.  "Nay,"  said  the  judge.  "  'T  is  more  like  that 
the  Spanish  are  at  the  bottom  of  this,  but  David  Batch- 
elor  and  his  company  will  do  their  part,  and  every 
house  in  this  poor,  harried,  and  exposed  land  is  a  for 
tress." 

The  preacher  sighed  as  the  judge  left  the  room  to 
send  a  messenger  bidding  David  Batchelor  join  their 
councils.  "  'T  is  not  wonderful,"  he  remarked,  "that 
these  poor  lost  sheep  of  the  Father  come  up  against  us 
in  battle.  We  have  many  times  set  them  the  example." 

"The  lesson  of  your  own  life,  Master  Valentine," 
returned  Burr,  smoothly,  "and  that  of  your  flock  would 
surely  be  a  good  one.  It  should  teach  peace." 

"I  pray  for  faith,"  said  Father  Tobias,  "and  yet  it 
hath  oft  seemed  to  me  that  evil  is  more  quickly  learned 


MISTRESS  JOY  61 

than  good.  The  Spaniards  burned  an  old  woman  here, 
Colonel  Burr.  'T  was  a  harmless  old  squaw  who  had 
come  to  my  daughter  many  a  time  begging.  I  was 
from  home.  'T  was  when  Sister  Barbara  Heck,  with 
many  of  the  godliest  of  our  faith,  were  gathered  in 
the  East  for  a  conference.  I,  one  of  the  least  among 
us,  was  called  to  be  present.  On  my  return,  daugh 
ter  Joyce,  a  child  of  scarce  fifteen,  told  me  of  how,  to 
please  the  Choctaws,  the  governor  (a  Spaniard  then, 
you  mind)  had  let  them  build  a  scaffold  here  and  burn 
the  poor  old  soul.  Manteo  the  Indian,  you  may  have 
seen  at  my  house,  speaks  all  their  tongues,  and  he  told 
me  that  to  the  last  she  cried  doom  down  upon  our  peo 
ple  as  well  as  upon  her  tormentors.  She  prophesied 
many  raids  and  forays,  which  have  since  come  to 
pass." 

"Such  things  could  not  take  place  under  the  United 
States  government,"  asserted  Burr. 

"Nay,  but  we  inherit  the  deathless  hatred  which 
those  things  engendered,"  returned  Father  Tobias. 

"War  is  always  a  frightful  thing,"  mused  Burr. 

"War !"  ejaculated  the  other.  "This  thing  is  not 
war,  Colonel  Burr.  You  propose  purchasing  near 
Natchez,  I  hear,  and  becoming  a  planter  in  this  section. 
'T  is  well  for  you  to  recognize  what  foes  are  these 
Natchez  folk  we  are  called  upon  to  deal  with.  It  is  pos 
sible  for  a  man  to  go  to  till  his  field,  leaving  his  cabin, 
as  he  thinks,  amply  protected,  and  to  return  to  find  his 
wife  and  babes  murdered  or  driven  away  to  a  worse 
fate,  and  his  home  in  flames.  If  Congress  can  and 
will  take  possession  of  this  territory,  and  give  wise  as 
sistance  to  such  men  as  yourself  and  my  good  friend 
David  Batchelor, — men  who  are  trained  in  wars, — we 
may,  perchance,  within  a  few  years  make  life  more 
secure.  There  is  a  noble  army  of  missionaries  among 
mine  own  people  who  will,  in  God's  good  time,  reach 


62  MISTRESS  JOY 

the  root  of  the  matter.  Once  the  Indian  is  converted 
to  know  the  true  God,  we  shall  live  beside  him  in  peace 
and  brotherly  love." 

"We  will  drench  him  with  the  gospel  and  dose  him 
with  leaden  pellets,  eh,  Master  Valentine?  'T  is  a 
brave  mixture,  and  hath  exterminated  many  a  savage 
tribe." 

Judge  Bruin  here  entered  Math  David  Batchelor, 
booted,  spurred,  and  mud-spattered  from  hard  riding. 
Massawippa  had  no  details  of  the  proposed  attack,  but 
it  was  considered  best  that  the  planters  be  exhorted  to 
remain  on  the  alert,  and  those  who  felt  themselves  too 
weak  to  offer  resistance  should  be  advised  to  come  into 
the  settlement. 

Four  messengers  were  chosen — Nicholas  Swazey, 
Abner  Chew,  Heritage  Hamtranck,  and  Demler 
Dunn — to  ride  the  four  main  routes  from  Natchez  and 
warn  the  settlers.  But  it  was  considered  that,  the 
danger  not  appearing  imminent,  these  warnings  need 
not  be  given  before  the  following  day.  Meantime, 
they  would  make  all  possible  preparations  to  repel  an 
attack.  Batchelor  proposed  a  plan  for  fortifying  the 
bluff,  which  could  then  be  used  as  a  lookout.  A  line  of 
earth  and  log  breastworks  was  to  run  from  a  point 
near  the  river  to  the  Valentine  house.  Bayou  Pierre, 
as  the  most  secure  and  easily  defended  point  they  had, 
was  to  be  a  depot  of  supplies  and  arms.  With  these 
latter  they  felt  they  were  fairly  well  provided ;  the  men 
of  substance  in  the  community  had  been  most  liberal 
in  subscriptions  for  that  purpose  since  Spain's  attitude 
in  regard  to  the  San  Lorenzo  treaty  had  become  a 
menace  to  the  English-speaking  residents  of  the  prov 
ince.  After  the  arrest  of  a  Baptist  preacher  named 
Hanna,  ostensibly  for  an  insult  to  the  Spanish  gover 
nor,  and  really  because  he  had  held  public  Protestant 
services  in  the  open  air,  the  Home  Guard,  under  David 


MISTRESS  JOY  63 

Batchelor,  was  looked  to  for  defense  from  Spanish 
aggressions. 

The  men  sat  talking  for  hours.  Batchelor  drew  out 
and  spread  upon  the  table  a  map  of  the  district,  with 
every  plantation  and  cabin  marked  upon  it.  The  situ 
ation  of  each,  its  liability  to  attack,  its  possibilities  for 
defense — these  points  were  brought  up  and  weighed 
by  them  with  the  gravity  of  men  who  knew  that  they 
were  dealing  with  matters  of  life  and  death. 

From  time  to  time,  the  judge  signaled  Cassius  to 
replenish  the  fire  in  the  great  stone  fireplace.  Mistress 
Bruin  came  in,  with  a  face  of  concern,  curtsied  to  the 
gentlemen,  talked  apart  with  her  husband,  and  left  the 
room  silently  and  in  tears. 

Outside  the  door  they  heard  her  daughter  question 
her,  and  break  into  terrified  sobbing  at  the  reply. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  David,  rising,  when  every  pos 
sible  point  had  been  considered,  "  't  is  now  hard  upon 
twelve  of  the  clock ;  let  us  disperse.  There  is  no  imme 
diate  cause  for  alarm,  I  take  it.  At  the  proper  time 
I  will  have  these  runners  warned  of  their  duty  and 
sent  forth." 

"And  you,  Master  Batchelor,  must  surely  not  ride 
back  to  "The  Meadows'  this  night,"  urged  Judge  Bruin. 
"Will  you  honor  me  by  lying  at  my  house?  Mistress 
Bruin  would  be  proud  to  have  you.  And  she  will  feel 
vastly  secure  with  so  doughty  a  soldier  added  to  our 
defense." 

"I  thank  you  and  Madame  Bruin,  both,"  returned 
David,  courteously.  "We  anticipate  no  attack  to 
night,  yet  the  dwelling  of  my  good  pastor  here  lieth 
like  an  outpost  fair  in  the  path  which  the  savages  must 
take  if  they  cross  the  river  at  the  point  which  I  appre 
hend  they  will  choose.  So,  with  your  permission  and 
his,  I  will  accompany  Master  Valentine  and  remain 
with  him." 


64  MISTRESS  JOY 

When  the  three  stepped  into  the  hallway,  Manteo, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  waiting  in  his  customary  fash 
ion  to  accompany  Father  Tobias  home,  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  Judge  Bruin  called  the  grinning  Cassius, 
and  bade  him  seek  the  Indian.  He  returned,  grin 
ning  more  broadly  than  before.  "Indy-man  done  gone 
cl'ar  'way,  massa.  Cain'  fin'  'im  nowhuz,"  he  declared. 

"Well,  mend  the  fire,  you  black  rascal,"  concluded 
the  judge.  "Look  to  this  log  you  have  left  here  for 
me  and  my  guests  to  break  our  shins  over." 

In  the  dim  obscurity  of  the  half-lighted  hall,  he  gave 
the  log  a  vigorous  kick,  and  the  log  responded  with 
a  remonstrant  grunt.  It  rolled  over,  and  disclosed  the 
blank,  placid  countenance  of  Manteo. 

"Why,  the  fellow  hath  gone  to  sleep  here  in  the  hall ! 
What  aileth  you?  Get  up!"  Words  failing  to  reach 
the  sleeper,  the  judge  interrogated  him  sharply  with 
his  foot. 

Manteo  arose,  blinking  and  gaping,  very  far  indeed 
from  his  usual  stolid  self.  He  lurched  toward  the 
doorway,  remembered  his  gun,  returned  for  it,  tangled 
his  feet,  fell,  and  sat,  in  their  astonished  midst,  chuck 
ling  foolishly. 

"Manteo,  are  you  ill  ?"  inquired  Father  Tobias,  lay 
ing  his  hand  upon  the  Indian's  head. 

"No  sick,"  gurgled  the  prostrate  warrior.  "Manteo 
heap  happy.  Manteo  heap  brave.  Manteo  eat  up 
Natchez.  Manteo  eat  up  five-six  hundred  Natchez." 
He  spread  his  brown  fingers  abroad  and  smiled  fatu 
ously  upon  them. 

"Manteo,  where  have  you  been?"  There  was  a  long 
pause.  "Have  you  been  drinking  anything?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  agreed  Manteo.  "Good  black  man  give 
Manteo  heap  fire-water.  Two  cups  fire-water.  Jug 
fire-water.  Barrel  fire-water.  Now  Manteo  eat  up  all 
Natchez,"  and  he  collapsed  and  slumbered. 


MISTRESS  JOY  65 

"How  shall  we  get  this  erring  creature  home?"  Fa 
ther  Tobias  inquired  anxiously. 

"He  is  welcome  to  remain  where  he  is,  if  't  will  re 
lieve  your  anxieties,  Master  Valentine.  But  for  my 
part —  '  and  the  judge's  rage  mounted.  "Cassius! 
You  black  villain !  Come  here  and  pick  up  this  un 
fortunate  man,  whom  you  have  made  drunk  on  my 
liquor,  and  carry  him  every  step  of  the  way  to  his 
home.  Every  step  of  the  way,  d'  ye  hear?  See  that 
you  let  him  down  not  once." 

"Iss,  massa,"  said  the  now  thoroughly  terrified  Cas 
sius,  and  he  made  an  abortive  attempt  to  hoist  Manteo 
upon  his  back. 

The  black,  however,  was  short,  and  the  Indian  was 
not  only  long,  but  limp.  Pried  up  at  the  center  of  his 
tall  frame,  his  head  and  feet  trailed  upon  the  floor,  and 
he  presented  so  comical  a  picture  that  Burr  and  David, 
lacking  the  reasons  of  Judge  Bruin  and  Father  Tobias, 
the  one  for  anger  and  the  other  for  anxiety,  burst  into 
uncontrollable  roars  of  laughter. 

But  Judge  Bruin  had  not  well  bethought  him  of  that 
proverb  which  assures  us  that  it  takes  two  to  make  a 
bargain.  As  the  stout,  squat,  little  black  man  pro 
pelled  the  loosely  waving  Manteo  toward  the  door,  that 
worthy,  finding  the  method  of  travel  unpleasing  to  him, 
and  some\vhat  sobered  by  the  proceedings,  rose,  shoul 
dered  his  gun,  and  staggered  down  the  path,  Father 
Tobias  and  David  following. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


ESSOP  lay  sleeping  peacefully  in  his 
bed,  on  that  Sabbath  evening  when 
Father  Tobias  left  him  to  go  to  Judge 
Bruin's. 

Warming  the  room  outside  was  a 
bright  fire,  which  sparkled  and  snap 
ped  in  the  huge  old  chimney.  It 
made  of  the  peaceful  interior  a  picture  of  comfort  and 
cheerful  homeliness.  The  dark-stained  walls  threw 
into  relief  rows  of  shining  vessels  of  pewter  and  brass, 
while  just  above  the  table  containing  the  Bible  and 
other  books  of  devotion  hung  the  portrait  of  a  fresh- 
faced  woman,  scarce  out  of  girlhood.  The  slender 
throat,  the  deer-like  head,  and  fearless  long-lashed  eyes 
were  Joy's.  About  the  firm  mouth  and  haunting  eyes 
hovered  a  wistful  eagerness,  and  Joy's  mother  carried 
in  her  whole  personality,  as  pictured  here,  the  intan 
gible  essence  of  breeding,  with  a  suggestion  of  the  in 
domitable  force,  high  courage,  and  truth  which  were  so 
marked  in  impetuous,  spiritual,  brave  Joyce  Valentine. 
Left  alone,  the  girl  sat  down  in  her  Sabbath  trim  to 
read  the  Book,  but  her  thoughts,  like  her  hair,  were 
bright  and  rebellious,  difficult  to  reduce  to  the  Puritan 
primness  which  was  her  ideal. 

The  sight  of  Massawippa  revived  in  her  mind  re 
membrance  of  a  story  which  the  old  squaw  had  told  her 
years  ago.  When  Joyce  was  quite  a  child,  Massawippa 
came  often  to  the  cabin  with  little  gifts  of  fragrant 

66 


MISTRESS  JOY  67 

barks,  or  berries  from  the  wood,  pones  of  strange  sweet 
bread  made  of  coarse  maize  meal  and  whole  chestnuts, 
and  buckskin  moccasins  for  Manteo  or  Father  Tobias. 

Joy,  deprived  of  a  mother's  care,  loved  the  strange, 
dark  old  woman,  and  was  most  devotedly  loved  by  her. 
Massawippa  used  to  take  the  slim,  pale,  bright-haired 
little  girl  upon  her  knee  and,  rocking  and  crooning,  tell 
her  Indian  stories  and  legends. 

The  old  squaw  was  not  a  Natchez.  She  seemed  to  be 
a  drifting  shred  from  some  tribe  farther  east.  But  she 
had  at  one  time  lived  with  the  Natchez,  and  the  story 
which  came  vividly  back  to  Joy's  mind,  as  she  sat,  was 
that  of  a  young  Natchez  princess,  Stel-o-na,  the  beauti 
ful  daughter  of  the  Chief  White-apple.  The  home  of 
White-apple  was  near  the  spot  where  the  Valentine 
cottage  now  stood.  His  wigwam  overlooked  green 
fields  of  maize  and  tobacco,  where  the  children  and 
squaws  labored  all  day  long. 

Then  the  French  came.  They  were  pleased  with 
the  corn,  they  learned  from  the  Indians  the  use  of 
tobacco.  Then  they  demanded  not  only  the  crops 
themselves,  but  the  fields  upon  which  they  were  grown, 
and  gave  the  rightful  owners  a  month  in  which  to 
depart. 

The  Natchez,  finding  that  they  were  to  be  starved 
as  well  as  exiled,  determined  to  resist.  They  plotted 
to  unite  with  the  two  other  Indian  tribes  of  the  sec 
tion  and  sweep  every  white-face  from  the  land.  Run 
ners  were  sent  to  the  Choctaws  and  Chickasaws,  and 
a  simultaneous  uprising  was  prepared.  A  quiver  of 
twenty  arrows  went  to  each  tribe.  One  was  to  be 
withdrawn  and  broken  every  morning.  At  daybreak 
on  the  morning  when  the  last  of  the  twenty  arrows 
should  have  been  broken,  the  three  tribes  would  attack 
simultaneously,  sharing  the  spoils. 

The  quiver  of  the  Natchez  was  deposited  in  the  Tern- 


68  MISTRESS  JOY 

pie  of  the  Sun,  and  each  day  the  priest,  or  medicine 
man,  was  to  burn  one  of  the  arrows  in  the  sacred  fire. 

But  Stel-o-na  had  seen  and  loved  a  young  lieutenant 
of  the  French,  the  'Sieur  de  Mace.  Now  she  was  in 
despair.  Hoping  to  break  the  power  of  the  three  tribes 
by  causing  her  own  people  to  begin  the  attack  ahead 
of  time,  she  stole  two  of  the  arrows  and  destroyed 
them.  The  French  easily  repulsed  the  Natchez,  fight 
ing  there  alone  without  reinforcements,  drove  them 
back  into  their  strongholds,  and  massacred  them  with 
out  mercy.  Stel-o-na,  fatally  wounded,  died  in  her 
lover's  arms,  protesting  to  the  last  that  she  died  happy, 
since  she  had  saved  him  and  his  people. 

Joyce  chided  herself  vainly  for  such  worldly,  not  to 
say  unseemly,  musings  upon  the  Sabbath  evening.  She 
opened  her  Bible  at  random,  as  was  her  custom,  to 
find  a  text  which  should  drive  away  these  intrusive 
thoughts.  And  she  read,  "For  this  cause  shall  a  man 
leave  father  and  mother,  and  cleave  only  to  his  wife." 

Suddenly,  the  words  were  alive.  It  struck  her  as 
curious  and  beautiful  that  there  was  love  other  than 
divine  love  even  in  the  Bible.  Dropping  the  lids  of 
the  sacred  book  together  again,  it  opened  of  itself, 
offering  her,  "And  Ruth  said,  'Entreat  me  not  to 
leave  thee,  nor  to  return  from  following  after  thee ; 
for  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go;  thy  people  shall  be 
my  people,  and  thy  God  my  God.'  '  The  words  were 
sweet,  though  Ruth  was  but  speaking  to  her  mother- 
in-law.  Joy  turned  back  to  the  beginning,  and  read 
the  quaint  little  story  through.  She  had  always  bten 
taught  that  it  was  love  of  truth,  seeking  for  the  gospel, 
which  led  Ruth  into  far  lands.  Now  a  new  light 
seemed  to  fall  upon  the  story,  illuminating  it  sentence 
by  sentence,  and  she  felt  that  a  lover's  waiting  arms 
had  drawn  the  widowed  Ruth  upon  her  travels.  She 
closed  the  Book,  and  sat  dreaming. 


MISTRESS   JOY  69 

If  the  love  of  a  man  for  a  woman,  or  a  woman  for 
a  man,  did  not  come  from  God,  where,  she  wondered, 
did  it  come  from,  or  why  came  it  at  all?  Jessop's 
words  and  intonations  were  recalled,  and  dwelt  upon  in 
detail.  How  much  did  they  mean?  How  little? 

Suddenly,  a  pleasant,  quiet  voice  behind  her  shoul 
der  said :  "A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  Mistress  Val 
entine." 

Joy  turned,  with  a  little  shriek.  Her  patient,  fully 
dressed — he  had  even  shaved  himself,  though  with  un 
steady  hand — stood,  looking  tall  and  pale,  in  the  door 
way  of  his  room. 

She  ran  to  him,  drew  him  forward,  and  placed  him 
in  a  chair  before  she  spoke  at  all.  "What  a  wicked, 
wicked,  sinful  thing  for  you  to  do,"  she  cried,  "to  tempt 
Providence  in  such  fashion !" 

"Why,  Mistress  Joy,"  answered  her  patient,  smil 
ingly,  "you  yourself  allowed  that  I  might  sit  up  next 
week." 

"Next  week!  Aye,  but  next  week  is  not  to-night. 
Will  you  go  back  and  lie  down?"  pleaded  Joy.  "Is 
your  fever  on  again,  think  you?" 

Jessop  held  out  a  submissive  hand.  Joy  took  the 
wrist  between  her  fingers,  and  counted  the  beating  of 
his  pulse  with  much  anxiety.  "Nay,"  she  said ;  "it  is 
even  and  measured,  though  weak.  But  I  would  my 
father  were  here.  I  am  afraid  I  do  ill  to  let  you  run 
such  risk." 

"  'T  is  little  risk  I  run,  Mistress  Joy,  so  far  as  the 
body  is  concerned,  though  for  the  heart — that  's  quite 
another  matter." 

"You  should  not  say  such  things  to  me,"  returned 
Joy,  reprovingly.  "In  the  first  place,  you  do  not  mean 
them,  and  lying  is  a  mortal  sin.  And,  in  any  case,  it 
is  very  foolish  and  frivolous  and  unmeet  to  be  speaking 
of  these  matters  on  a  Sabbath  evening." 


70  MISTRESS  JOY 

Jessop  burst  out  laughing.  "Mistress  Joy,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "I  do  protest  that  not  all  the  coquettes  in 
Christendom  could  make  a  man  so  determined  to  talk 
of  love  as  one  fair  Puritan,  who  says  he  shall  not. 
Now  what,  if  an  outcast  sinner  like  myself  may  make 
inquiry,  would  you  suggest  as  a  suitable  subject  for 
Sabbath-day  conversation?  You  counted  my  pulse;  its 
beat  comes  from  the  heart,  and  also  from  that  heart 
comes  the  love  of  which  I  speak.  It  appears  to 
me  that  you  theologians  (you  are  a  theologian,  are 
you  not,  Mistress  Joy?)  are  a  mighty  hair-splitting- 
folk." 

Because  the  stronger  self  within  Joy  answered  to 
the  youth  and  happiness  and  abandon  in  Jessop's  tone, 
she  replied  to  him  the  more  austerely.  "Here  is  the 
Book  of  all  books,  sir;  we  can  surely  find  therein  im 
proving  matter  for  conversation." 

"What  were  you  reading  in  it  as  I  came  forth,  Mis 
tress  Joy?"  inquired  Jessop. 

The  girl's  cheeks  flung  out  their  maiden  banners  of 
distress;  white  brow,  and  even  neck  and  ears,  were 
dyed  as  she  turned  her  face  away. 

Jessop  noted  her  confusion.  "I  warrant  me,"  he 
cried,  laughing  boyishly  and  happily,  "that  you  were 
sitting  here,  alone  in  the  firelight,  searching  out  every 
text  on  love  which  the  dear  old  Book  holds." 

He  leaned  forward  and  caught  the  hand  nearest  him, 
as  it  hung  listless  by  her  side.  "Turn  round  and  face 
your  judge,  mistress;  was  't  not  so?" 

"Indeed,  't  was  not,"  Joy  replied  indignantly.  "I 
do  not  mix  my  religion  with  worldliness  and  folly." 
Then,  with  her  usual  resolute  honesty:  "I  opened  the 
Book  at  random  twice  or  thrice,  to  get  rid  of  some 
very  unwelcome  thoughts,  and  those  texts  you  mention 
came  of  themselves." 

"Came  of  themselves!     Of  course  they  did,  sweet- 


MISTRESS  JOY  71 

ing;  so  they  come  always  to  those  who  are  ready  for 
them." 

"I  am  not,"  protested  Joy.  "I  am  not  looking  for 
such  things.  I  told  you  they  were  unwelcome — those 
thoughts  I  had." 

Jessop  sprang  to  his  feet,  dropping  one  arm  lightly 
around  her  waist.  With  the  other  hand  beneath  her 
chin,  he  turned  her  face  to  his  smiling  one.  "And 
those  thoughts  were  of  me!"  he  exclaimed  trium 
phantly.  "I  know  they  were." 

What  more  he  would  have  said  or  done,  Joy  knew 
not,  for  she  freed  herself,  remonstrating,  "This  is  un 
seemly  behavior,  Master  Jessop.  I  shall  not  remain 
with  you  to  hear  such  words  and  be  so  treated." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  pleaded  anxiously  and  earnestly. 
"You  have  been  so  heavenly  kind  to  a  wretched  out 
cast,  who  came  like  a  beggar  to  your  door,  I  made  sure 
you  were  thinking  of  me." 

"But  I  was  not,"  returned  Joy,  naively.  "I  was 
thinking  of  another  girl  and  her  lover,  of  whom  Massa- 
wippa  told  me,  and  wondering  if  I — if  you —  '  she 
broke  down  in  confusion. 

Jessop  would  have  been  more  or  less  than  man  could 
he  have  resisted  a  confession  so  childlike,  so  endear 
ingly  innocent.  Ere  she  had  done  speaking,  his  arms 
were  around  her,  and  he  had  taken  the  kiss  which  was 
the  ultimate  object  of  all  his  jesting  and  badinage. 

At  the  sound  of  footsteps  approaching  the  door,  the 
two  started  apart  and  faced  each  other.  Joy  was  white 
and  shaking  with  fury.  That  temper,  which  in  her 
better  moods  she  regarded  as  emanating  straight  from 
the  evil  one,  had  full  possession  of  her  now. 

Jessop  was  flushed  and  triumphant,  but  a  bit  shame 
faced,  too,  at  sight  of  her  passionate  anger. 

There  was  no  time  for  speech  between  them  before 
Father  Tobias  opened  the  door  and  ushered  David  in. 


72  MISTRESS  JOY 

Manteo  staggered  after,  and,  unable  to  mount  the  stair 
way  to  the  attic  room,  fell  in  a  tangled  heap  beside  it 
and  slept. 

The  door  was  scarce  closed  behind  the  newcomers, 
when  there  came  a  gentle  tapping,  and  David  opened 
once  more  to  admit  Massawippa. 

On  the  old  squaw's  face  and  in  her  manner  was  left 
nothing  of  Indian  stolidity.  She  urged  upon  them  to 
prepare  immediately  for  defense,  for  that  the  attack 
might  now  come  at  any  moment. 

All  speaking  at  once,  they  urged  her  to  explain.  She 
but  reiterated  her  entreaties,  her  continual  cry  being 
that  it  was  this  cabin  which  was  especially  menaced; 
it  was  this  household  only  which  was  threatened. 

"How  numbers  the  war  party?"  asked  David.  And 
she  admitted,  but  confusedly,  that  so  far  as  she  knew 
it  numbered  but  five. 

The  men  were  half  disposed  to  laugh,  and  half  in 
clined  to  be  suspicious  of  this  singularly  exact  infor 
mation;  but  Joyce  maintained  passionately  that  they 
would  do  ill  to  distrust  Massawippa,  and  pleaded  the 
old  woman's  past  faithfulness. 

And  so  it  was  decided  to  follow  the  squaw's  counsel. 
When  the  excitement  over  her  news  had  abated,  the 
men  had  leisure  to  observe  that  Jessop  was  up  and 
dressed.  Father  Tobias  was  for  having  him  hurried 
back  to  his  bed,  but  David  interposed,  "Nay,  if  Master 
Jessop  is  able  to  load  a  rifle,  though  he  be  not  strong 
enough  to  bear  one,  we  would  best  let  him  stay." 

In  the  hurry  of  preparation,  all  thought  of  that  pre 
vious  episode,  all  anger  over  the  stolen  kiss,  was  swept 
out  of  sight. 

"Not  fight — I?"  cried  Jessop.  "I  feel  as  well  as 
ever  I  did  in  my  life." 

The  heavy  inner  shutters  were  put  in  place.  "Man 
teo  should  be  in  the  attic  to  act  as  lookout,"  fretted 


MISTRESS  JOY  73 

Father  Tobias,  "but  I  fear  me  he  is  not  fit  for  the 
duty." 

Jessop  bent  over  the  recumbent  Indian,  sniffed  sus 
piciously,  then  raised  his  eyebrows  in  inquiry,  glancing 
at  David.  "Cold  water,  taken  exclusively,  is  a  preven 
tive  of  such  seizure  as  this  appears,"  he  laughed ;  "and 
cold  water,  applied  externally,  is  the  best  remedy 
known  to  bibulous  man." 

"Think  you  we  can  revive  him?"  questioned  David, 
somewhat  doubtfully. 

"Methinks  I  have  swum  out  of  worse  ports  on  cold 
water,"  Jessop  rejoined. 

"Here  goes,  then,"  agreed  Batchelor,  dragging  the 
Indian  toward  Joy's  immaculate  kitchen.  "I  have 
pulled  many  a  good  fellow,  limber  as  this,  from  under 
a  table  and  pumped  on  him  until  he  \vas  a  man  again. 
I  will  apply  the  remedy,  but  do  you  hold  him,  Master 
Jessop,  lest  his  recovery  prove  too  demonstrative." 

With  much  sousing,  grunting,  and  splashing,  and 
with  sympathetic  bursts  of  laughter  from  the  two  men, 
Manteo  was  brought  finally  to  a  condition  in  which 
he  conjectured  that  the  stairs  were  things  meant  for 
climbing. 

He  was  then  hoisted  to  his  room  and  given  a  rifle, 
with  the  hope  that,  as  he  sobered  more  and  more,  he 
would  be  able  to  act  with  fair  efficiency  as  lookout. 

When  the  two  men  reached  the  lower  room  again, 
they  found  Father  Tobias  and  Joyce  continuing  the 
defensive  preparations.  All  the  cabins  of  that  time 
were  built  for  such  emergencies.  The  inner  shutters 
were  heavily  loopholed,  and  so  fastened  as  to  be  im 
movable  from  without.  Joyce  laid  all  the  available 
weapons  on  her  spotlessly  scoured  dining-table.  She 
had  placed  a  small  kettle  on  the  coals,  and  the  ladle 
and  bullet-molds,  with  the  basin  of  water,  were  set 
forth  near  it. 


74  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Is  Manteo  ill?"  she  inquired  rather  sternly  of 
David.  It  was  plain  she  suspected  the  cause  of  the 
Indian's  condition. 

"Well,"  remarked  Jessop,  before  David  could  reply, 
"I  warrant  me  there  have  been  times  when  he  hath  felt 
better." 

"What  did  you  do  to  him?"  pursued  Joy. 

"Faith,  we  doctored  him,  Mistress  Valentine.  We 
gave  him  the  proper  remedy.  May  I  have  a  rifle? 
Cannot  Mistress  Joy  load  for  three?"  he  queried. 

"Are  you  a  good  shot?"  asked  David.  "I  myself 
am  only  fair.  I  lack  practice." 

"Manteo  can  hit  a  silver  coin  at  a  hundred  paces," 
suggested  Joy. 

Jessop  stole  a  humorous  look  at  David,  as  they  bent 
together  over  the  guns.  "That  he  will  not  this  even 
ing,  Mistress  Valentine,"  he  finally  observed.  "  'T  is 
my  belief  he  might  make  shift  to  hit  a  good,  large  barn 
door,  an  the  barn-door  would  be  complaisant  and  hold 
quite  still  for  him." 

Joy  looked  at  Jessop,  and  was  filled  with  wonder. 
His  eyes  were  bright,  a  glow  of  excitement  supplied  the 
flush  of  health  on  his  cheek.  She  had  no  experience 
of  men  of  his  type,  to  whom  danger  and  risk  are  as 
new  wine.  The  men  whom  she  knew  best  were  brave ; 
they  faced  awful  danger,  but  they  faced  it  soberly, 
counting  the  cost,  and  only  in  defense  of  home,  wrife, 
and  children. 

Jessop's  dancing  eyes  roved  gaily  over  the  defenses. 
He  seemed  to  regard  the  whole  thing  as  a  play  pre 
pared  for  his  diversion.  Suddenly,  on  the  hushed 
hurry  of  their  preparations  fell  a  long-drawn,  quiver 
ing  cry.  It  might  have  been  an  owl,  it  might  even 
have  been  a  panther,  though  these  latter  seldom  came 
close  to  the  settlement  now. 

Joyce  paused  in  her  bullet-molding,  ladle  in  hand, 


MISTRESS  JOY  75 

while  the  bright  moltei  drops  dripped  back  into  the 
kettle.  "What  was  that?"  she  whispered. 

Father  Tobias  murmured,  "Hush!  'T  will  come 
again." 

But  it  did  not  come  again.  They  had  begun  once 
more  to  move  stealthily,  their  nerves  still  tensely 
strained,  listening  for  the  cry.  There  was  a  soft  thud 
upon  the  door,  as  though  a  feather-bed  had  been 
thrown  against  it.  Then  a  voice  moaned,  "O  Tobias, 
dear  Tobias !  It  's  me,  only  me.  Please  let  us  in.  I 
do  yearn  to  help  take  care  of  you." 

Before  the  first  sentence  ended  Father  Tobias  and 
Joy  had  recognized  the  voice.  But  it  was  David 
Batchelor  who  took  away  the  prop  and  opened  the  door 
to  usher  in  Sister  Loving  Longanecker  and  her  daugh 
ter  Patience. 

"The  Lord  in  his  mercy  be  praised !"  she  gasped, 
blinking  at  the  light.  Then  she  turned  upon  Batchelor 
volubly :  "Ye  sent  for  me  to  bring  the  child  to  the  man 
Bruin's,  and  so — " 

"What!"  broke  in  David.  "You  have  not  brought 
the  child  here  ?" 

A  sturdy  boy  of  four,  son  of  a  countryman  of 
David's,  and  left  to  his  care  by  the  death  of  both  pa 
rents,  was  fast  asleep  in  Patience's  arms. 

"Aye,  that  have  we,"  answered  Sister  Loving, 
stoutly.  "When  we  got  to  Bruin's  house  there  was 
Miss  wringing  of  her  hands  and  weeping,  and  Madame 
no  whit  better.  They  told  us  't  was  feared  there  were 
Indians  abroad.  They  said  you  had  come  here.  And 
Patience  says  to  me,  says  she,  'Mummy,  we  must  go  to 
be  a  sword  and  buckler  to  dear  Pastor  Valentine.' ' 

Sister  Loving  ogled  Father  Tobias  coyly.  It  be 
came  evident  to  Jessop,  as  she  proceeded  with  her  ram 
bling  narrative  of  their  terror  and  the  dangers  which 
had  beset  their  journey  to  the  Valentine's,  that  the 


76  MISTRESS   JOY 

elder  woman  was  in  the  habit  of  representing  herself 
as  a  mere  puppet  in  the  hands  of  her  daughter. 

"Patience  says,  says  she,  'Mummy,  take  your  gun, 
because  if  we  meet  any  of  the  Indians  ye  '11  need  it,' 
says  she."  Poor  Patience — small,  meek,  frightened, 
with  slightly  retreating  chin  and  protruding  eyes — lis 
tened  while  her  great,  gaunt  parent  added :  "And  me 
that  's  so  'feared  of  a  gun." 

"Tut,  tut,  Sister  Loving !"  interrupted  Pastor  Valen 
tine,  impatiently.  "You  can  shoot  truer  than  any  other 
woman  of  our  Society,  and  well  you  know  it.  Let 
Patience  lay  the  boy  upon  the  settle  and  care  for  him. 
Take  you  this  loophole  to  guard.  It  sweeps  the  whole 
east  hill.  Mind  you  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  and  speak 
never  a  word." 

"If  he  hath  a  mind  to  do  slow  murder,  he  hath  gone 
the  right  way  about  it,"  whispered  Jessop,  in  a  gleeful 
aside  to  David.  "Methinks  that  latter  command  will 
surely  finish  the  grenadier  in  petticoats." 

Silence  fell  in  the  little  room.  Again  every  nerve 
was  stretched  like  a  violin  string.  The  firelight  flared 
and  glinted  on  the  wall.  The  child,  after  some  drowsy 
protests,  slumbered  on  his  hastily  spread  couch  of 
blankets. 

Jessop  turned  occasionally  from  his  post  to  snatch 
a  hasty  glance  at  Joy,  where  she  sat  on  a  low  stool  by 
the  hearthside,  molding  bullets.  Ever,  when  the  flame 
dropped  low,  its  scattered  brightness  seemed  to  muster 
on  that  down-bent,  red-gold  head.  Her  face  showed, 
serious  and  attentive,  but  not  terrified.  The  color 
was  in  her  curved  lips,  and  a  little  flush  from  the  heat 
of  the  fire  painted  the  warm  whiteness  of  her  cheek. 
vShe  was  molding  excellent  bullets,  one  could  see  that. 
Joy's  bullets  would  be  true  in  time  of  need,  just  as  her 
prayers  would  be  in  time  of  spiritual  stress.  When  the 
boy  stirred  she  quieted  him  with  an  adroit  hand. 


MISTRESS  JOY  77 

How  different  was  she  from  any  feminine  thing 
which  had  come  into  Jessop's  life  before.  History  re 
news  often  enough  its  proofs  that  the  women  of  the 
grande  monde  can  meet  suffering  unmoved,  that  they 
know  how  to  laugh  in  the  teeth  of  disaster,  and  smile 
upon  the  front  of  death.  But  it  is  pain  and  danger 
thrust  upon  them  which  evoke  this  fortitude,  this  he 
roism.  But  Joy — danger,  hardship,  renunciation  were 
her  familiars,  made  so  willingly  and  freely  for  her 
father's  sake. 

It  was  not  in  the  blood  of  a  man  like  Jessop  to  re 
gard  a  daughter  of  the  people  as  other  than  legitimate 
prey.  Yet,  thrown  in  the  society  of  Joyce  Valentine  in 
a  manner  which  to  his  aristocratic  ideas  seemed  the 
crude  familiarity  of  peasant  life,  he  had  never  been  able 
to  assume  toward  her  other  than  a  respectful  mental 
attitude.  He  doggedly  refused  to  admit  to  himself 
that  she  was  his  equal.  To  wife  with  her  were  impos 
sible — but  well  he  knew  that  she  was  his  superior. 

He  beheld  her  now — strong  hands,  intelligent  face, 
brave  eyes  that  looked  at  danger  unflinchingly.  Some 
how,  the  sight  brought  to  him  the  vision  of  one  at 
home  in  England,  a  very  great  lady  as  the  world  counts 
greatness,  young  and  beautiful  too,  even  as  Joyce  was 
beautiful.  He  wondered  smilingly  what  would  she 
think  of  Joyce  Valentine;  and  what — good  faith! — • 
would  she  do  at  such  a  push  as  this?  She,  with  her 
first  tiring-woman  and  her  second  tiring-woman,  and 
her  spaniel,  which  must  have  its  own  attendant,  her 
silken  hose,  her  heelless  kid  sandals,  her  multitudinous 
smelling-bottles,  and  her  affected  horror  at  anything 
real,  natural,  or  human ! 

With  a  whispered  laugh,  he  once  more  leaned  to  his 
lookout.  What  mattered  it?  One  of  these  women 
was  dead  to  him,  and  the  other  was  near  and  fair  and 
kind. — But  was  she  kind  ? 


78  MISTRESS  JOY 

For  the  first  time  there  entered  his  mind  a  creeping 
doubt  of  his  ability  to  take  this  feminine  fortress,  so 
oddly  garrisoned  with  defenses  quite  new  to  him. 
"Say  I  offered  her  marriage,"  he  communed  with  him 
self.  "And  then,  if  the  succession  falls  to  me — by 
God,  why  not?"  He  turned  to  glance  once  more. 
Their  mutual  danger  had  brought  Joy  nearer  to  him 
than  ever  before.  "She  looks  every  inch  a  countess," 
he  said.  "And  for  courage,  not  one  of  them  can  touch 
her." 


CHAPTER   IX 

AVID  was  stationed  at  a  loophole 
across  the  corner  from  that  guarded 
by  Jessop.  Now  he  leaned  forward 
and  touched  the  other  on  the  shoul 
der.  "Think  you,"  he  said,  "the  In 
dian  above  is  too  drunk  to  keep  guard  ? 
Will  they  be  upon  us  unawares?" 
"I  fear  so,"  answered  Jessop. 

Massawippa  had  stolen  unnoticed  from  her  place  at 
the  fireside.  She  crept  up  the  ladder-like  stair,  and 
stood  in  the  bare  little  attic  room.  It  was  even  as 
the  men  had  anticipated.  Manteo  lay  sprawled  across 
his  gun  and  snoring.  The  squaw  crouched  at  the  loop 
hole  to  watch  in  his  place. 

Out  of  the  silence  came  the  cry  of  Joy's  wildcat, 
Satan,  suing  at  the  back  door  for  admission.  It  struck 
on  the  strained  nerves  of  the  little  band  like  a  blow. 
They  jarred  vividly  to  it.  Despite  the  remonstrances 
of  David  and  Father  Tobias,  who  were  well  versed  in 
that  Indian  ruse  of  imitating  the  cry  or  call  of  wild 
animal  and  bird,  Joy,  insisting  that  she  knew  her 
Satan's  voice,  opened  the  low  little  door  and  let  him 
in.  The  gray,  streaked  creature  sprang  to  her  lap,  purr 
ing,  its  broad  frilled  face  alive  with  love  and  grati 
tude,  its  green  eyes  glowing,  as  it  rubbed  its  head 
against  her  breast. 

Again  for  a  weary  hour  there  was  but  the  purring 
of  the  cat,  the  whispering  of  the  fire,  a  murmur  from 

79 


8o  MISTRESS   JOY 

the  sleeping  child,  or  the  uneasy  sighing  of  Sister  Lov 
ing,  as  some  idea  which  she  might  not  express  swelled 
big  within  her. 

Faithful,  awakening  out  of  a  dream  of  mice  and  un 
limited  cream,  arose  from  her  basket  and  stretched 
herself  luxuriously.  Suddenly  her  one  yellow  eye  en 
countered  the  hated  Satan,  seated  aloft  in  state  and 
being  made  much  of.  A  thunderous  growl  from  the 
cat,  as  unfeminine  as  Sister  Loving's  tones  were  low 
and  sweet,  greeted  the  odious  sight. 

Patience,  who  had  been  kneeling  by  her  mother,  arose 
at  the  sound,  and,  tiptoeing  gently  across  the  room, 
crouched  at  Joy's  side.  The  bullets  were  molded,  and 
Joy  had  put  them  upon  the  table  along  with  the  two 
spare  guns,  ready  to  reload  for  the  men  at  the  loop 
holes.  Father  Tobias  called  softly  to  Faithful,  and  the 
growling  ceased. 

On  the  perfect  stillness  which  followed  there  came  a 
sound,  muffled  but  distinct — the  three  raps  on  the  floor 
above.  It  was  Manteo's  signal,  as  agreed  upon.  Jes- 
sop's  blood  tingled,  and  the  red  came  into  his  fagged, 
weary  face.  Patience  moaned  and  clung  to  Joy's 
skirts,  hiding  her  face.  None  of  the  watchers  at  the 
loopholes  could  see  anything  approaching,  though  the 
night  was  clear  and  starlit. 

Above,  Manteo  still  slumbered  drunkenly.  The  sig 
nal  had  came  from  Massawippa,  who,  from  her  out 
look  over  the  door,  had  caught  sight  of  a  stealthy 
movement  in  the  edge  of  the  cane-brake. 

Again  and  yet  again  something  stirred.  Finally  a 
dark  form  stole  a  few  paces  into  the  open  toward  the 
black,  silent  little  hut.  It  was  joined  by  another  and 
another,  till  there  were  five  figures  in  view.  As  she 
watched  them,  apparently  consulting  together  in  regard 
to  their  next  move,  she  made  desperate  efforts  to  pull 
Manteo's  gun  from  under  him,  or  to  rouse  him  that 


MISTRESS  JOY  81 

he  might  shoot.  But  'Manteo  was  like  a  drugged  crea 
ture,  and  she  finally  got  the  weapon  in  her  own  hands, 
aimed  it  as  best  she  could,  and  fired.  Her  shot  was 
the  signal  for  a  yell  and  a  rush  toward  the  cabin. 

Roused  at  last  by  the  sound  of  firing  and  the  familiar 
war-whoop,  Manteo  struggled  up  and  grappled  with 
the  thing  which  he  conceived  to  be  his  adversary.  Sav 
agely,  again  and  again,  he  struck  Massawippa.  As 
best  she  might,  she  parried  and  evaded  the  blows,  but 
never  returned  them.  To  and  fro  they  swayed,  the 
squaw  whispering,  "Massawippa,  Massawippa!  Man 
teo — Massawippa  /" 

But  Manteo  either  did  not  hear  her,  or,  hearing,  did 
not  care.  His  drunken  fury  blinded  him  to  the  peril 
of  their  position. 

The  first  rush  brought  one  of  the  besiegers  within 
range  of  Sister  Loving's  rifle.  Ah,  Sister  Loving — 
Sister  Loving,  of  the  tender  heart,  the  piping  voice, 
the  warrior  soul,  and  the  keen,  true  aim !  She  belied 
her  name  by  waiting  until  the  man  was  within  point- 
blank  range,  and  then  firing  with  a  steady  hand. 

"One  wicked  heathen  gone,"  she  remarked  in  dove- 
like  tones,  tossing  the  gun  backward  to  Patience  and 
reaching  for  the  fresh  rifle  which  that  astute  young 
woman  knew  better  than  not  to  have  waiting  for  her 
mother's  hand. 

As  Sister  Loving's  eye  came  back  to  the  loophole 
she  cried  out  with  dissatisfaction,  for  her  Indian  was 
up  and  limping  off.  She  sent  another  shot  after  him, 
which  failed  of  effect. 

Sister  Loving's  victim  had  approached  the  house  on 
the  east,  the  side  farthest  from  the  river.  Next  to 
Mistress  Longanecker,  and  commanding  the  northern 
outlook,  stood  Jessop.  As  the  wounded  savage  reached 
the  cane-brake,  a  companion  bounded  out,  and,  circling 
westward  to  avoid  the  fate  of  his  predecessor,  passed 
6 


82  MISTRESS   JOY 

Jessop's  loophole  at  a  swift  nin.  Jessop's  nerves  were 
as  steel,  and  his  heart  leaped  exultantly.  It  was  like 
shooting  at  a  fleeing  pheasant  on  a  Scotch  moor.  He 
felt  the  same  elation  and  no  remorse  as,  with  a  clean 
shot,  he  bowled  his  man  over.  And  this  Indian  lay 
quite  still ;  he  did  not  rise  again. 

"Didst  git  'im?"  inquired  Mistress  Longanecker. 
At  Jessop's  nod,  she  continued  ruefully :  "Well,  you  've 
the  lead  o*  me,  then.  I  grassed  mine,  but  he  got  away." 

A  rifle  shot  rang  out  clear  and  loud,  and  a  bullet 
cried  past  Mistress  Longanecker  s  ear.  Her  fatal  pro 
pensity  for  conversation  had  caused  the  momentary 
neglect  of  her  outlook. 

Father  Tobias  was  kneeling  by  the  south  door,  to 
bring  his  eye  on  a  level  with  its  loophole.  The  bullet 
struck  the  stones  above  the  fireplace  and  Was  deflected, 
wounding  him  slightly  in  the  head. 

As  Mistress  Longanecker  saw  her  beloved  Tobias 
sink  to  the  floor,  she  leaped  up  with  a  yell.  Turning  to 
Patience,  she  bellowed  in  her  reserve  voice,  which  was 
to  her  usual  tones  as  a  hurricane  to  a  summer  zephyr : 
"Shut — your — mouth  !'* 

"Why,  mummy,"  whimpered  her  daughter,  "I 
hain't  opened  it.'* 

"But  ye  were  a-goin'  to.  Y'  know  ye  were  a-goin' 
to,"  screamed  her  irate  parent,  as  she  ran  to  where 
Father  Tobias  was  already  striving  to  rise. 

David  and  Jessop  stuck  to  their  respective  positions, 
and  shouted  to  Mistress  Longanecker  to  stick  to  hers. 
Manteo  alone,  David  said,  would  be  sufficient  protec 
tion  for  the  south  front,  though  Master  Valentine  was 
down. 

But  the  sister  heeded  nothing,  not  even  the  voice 
of  her  clearly  beloved  Tobias,  as  he  protested  that  he 
was  scarcely  scratched.  Struggling  to  his  feet,  he 
sought  to  evade  her  onslaught.  She  flung  herself 


MISTRESS   JOY  83 

down  before  him  and  clasped  his  knees,  volleying  forth 
praises  and  hosannas  for  his  deliverance.  "And  Pa 
tience  says  to  me,  says  she,  'O  dear  Master  Tobias,  are 
you  sure  you  're  not  hurt  no  worse  than  what  ye  think 
ye  are  ?'  Just  lean  right  down  on  me,  and  I  '11  help  ye 
over  to  the  settle." 

Father  Tobias  was  in  an  agony  of  impatience  to  get 
back  to  his  unguarded  door.  "Let  me  go,  my  good 
soul;  pray  let  be.  Calm  thyself,  dear  Sister  Loving! 
Let  me  go,  I  say,  good  Mistress  Longanecker." 

And  as  Father  Tobias  withdrew  first  one  foot  and 
then  the  other  from  her  toils,  stepping  high  lest  per 
chance  he  tread  upon  his  supplicant,  and  inching  minc- 
ingly  toward  his  old  station  at  the  south  door,  the 
graceless  Jessop  was  irresistibly  reminded  of  the  an 
tics  of  a  reverend  old  crane. 

"O-o-oh,  he  called  me  dear!"  hosannahed  Mistress 
Loving.  "And  Patience  says  to  me,  says  she,  'I  do 
love  Joy  like  a  sister,  er-ready.'  ' 

Father  Tobias  was  by  no  means  extricated,  and  his 
reckless  use  of  words  had  emboldened  Sister  Longa 
necker  to  block  his  path  anew.  Manteo,  above,  whom 
Jessop  and  David  supposed  to  be  guarding  the  south 
approach,  was  still  wrestling  with  Massawippa  for 
his  gun. 

There  were  but  three  of  the  five  Indians  left  active 
in  the  field.  These,  finding  that  they  were  not  fired 
upon  from  the  south  side  of  the  dwelling,  came  boldly 
up,  and  two  of  them,  under  the  direction  of  the  third, 
who  seemed  to  be  the  leader,  raised  a  log  of  firewood — 
a  monster  back-log  which  lay  beside  the  door-stone 
— and,  using  it  as  a  battering-ram,  at  one  blow  drove 
the  door  inward. 

Master  Valentine,  Sister  Longanecker  and  Patience 
were  all  knocked  down  by  the  falling  door,  while  the 
sleeping  child,  rudely  awakened,  crouched  sobbing  on 


84  MISTRESS  JOY 

the  settle.  Jessop  and  David  both  fired  into  the  open 
doorway,  and  succeeded  in  driving  off  the  two  Indians 
who  had  used  the  log. 

But  the  savage  who  had  been  directing  them  leaped 
into  the  open  doorway  and,  brandishing  his  tomahawk, 
sprang  across  the  room  toward  Joy,  as  she  stood  at 
the  table  absorbed  in  loading  and  handing  the  extra 
guns. 

The  weapons  of  both  Jessop  and  David  were  empty. 
Father  Tobias  had  not  yet  extricated  himself  from  the 
fallen  door  and  Sister  Loving's  scarcely  less  formid 
able  endearments.  A  moment  more,  and  the  whirling 
tomahawk  would  descend,  when  suddenly,  like  a  gray 
streak,  Satan  launched  himself,  all  teeth  and  claws,  full 
in  the  Indian's  face. 

The  savage  leaped  back,  unprepared  for  such  war 
methods  in  the  cabin  of  a  white  medicine-man.  Joyce 
wheeled,  flung  up  the  loaded  rifle  she  held  ready  to  pass 
to  whichever  defender  might  need  it  first,  and  fired  in 
stantly,  filling  the  room  with  smoke  and  uproar. 

The  man  trembled  and  sank  to  one  knee.  Then, 
with  a  wrench,  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  started  off  at  a 
sort  of  shambling  run. 

David  leaned  forward,  snatched  a  rifle  from  the 
table,  and  shot  him  as  he  ran. 

"O  Master  Batchelor!"  remonstrated  Joyce,  from 
the  end  of  the  settle,  against  which  the  gun's  recoil 
had  flung  her.  "He  was  a  very  wicked  man.  Per 
chance,  had  you  let  him  live,  he  might  have  repented." 

"Let  him  repent  in  hell,"  groaned  Batchelor,  between 
his  shut  teeth.  "Are  you  hurt,  Joy?  Did  he  strike 
you?" 

"No,"  said  Joy,  turning  to  recover  and  reload  the 
empty  gun. 

Jessop  had  run  forward,  and  was  attempting  to  lift 
the  heavy  door  from  Father  Tobias.  Weakened  by 


MISTRESS  JOY  85 

his  long  illness,  however,  his  strength  proved  unequal 
to  the  task. 

David  laid  his  hand  upon  the  table,  and,  vaulting 
lightly  over  it,  added  his  exertions,  and  the  door  was 
soon  in  place.  Father  Tobias  was  lifted  to  the  couch. 

"We  must  back  to  our  loopholes,  must  we  not?" 
queried  Jessop,  in  a  hurried  undertone. 

"I  think  the  fight  is  over,"  replied  David.  "I  be 
lieve  there  were  but  a  half-dozen  of  our  assailants,  and 
we  have  lamed  or  wounded  three  or  four." 

"Manteo  should  be  all  the  lookout  that  we  need 
now,"  said  Jessop.  "But,"  as  they  peered  once  more 
from  the  various  outlooks,  "though  he  gave  the  signal, 
yet  he  let  two  or  three  approach  the  door." 

"Belike  he  is  too  drunk  to  see  them.  Methought  I 
heard  a  struggle  up  there  while  we  fought  down  here," 
commented  David. 

"And  where  is  Massawippa?"  asked  Joy.  She  had 
taken  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  was  hushing  him  gently 
as  she  spoke.  Sister  Loving  was  once  more  in  close 
attendance  upon  the  pastor — an  attendance  with  which 
it  appeared  he  would  have  gladly  dispensed. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  the  ears  of  those  below  a 
yell,  the  sound  of  a  struggle,  and  of  a  shutter  being 
torn  away  above-stairs. 

They  believed  for  a  moment  that  one  of  the  be 
siegers  had,  in  some  manner  inexplicable  to  them, 
climbed  to  Manteo's  window  and,  breaking  in  its  de 
fense,  attacked  the  drunken  Indian  as  he  lay. 

What  really  had  occurred  was  this :  The  attacking 
party  actually  consisted  of  but  five  Indians.  They 
were  led  by  a  tall  man  who  was  not  a  Natchez,  but 
spoke,  instead,  in  a  dialect  which  the  four  Natchez,  his 
companions,  seemed  at  times  to  find  difficult  of  com 
prehension.  This  man  David  had  shot.  The  others, 
in  departing,  followed  a  custom  not  uncommon  in  these 


86  MISTRESS  JOY 

Indian  forays,  which  were  more  for  purposes  of  rob 
bery  than  in  the  way  of  ordinary  warfare.  Firing  a 
well-seasoned  torch,  they  threw  it  upon  the  roof  of  the 
cabin  as  they  fled  to  the  shelter  of  the  canes.  The 
sight  of  it  as  it  whirled  past  the  loophole  sobered  Man- 
teo,  and  the  sound  of  it,  as  it  sputtered  and  crackled 
upon  the  shingles,  caused  him  to  release  his  grasp  upon 
Massawippa. 

Well  he  knew  that  the  hand  which  threw  that  brand 
was  waiting,  if  it  blazed  undisturbed,  to  complete  the 
work  of  murder  and  destruction. 

He  wrenched  loose  the  fastenings  of  the  window 
shutter.  "Massawippa  go,"  pleaded  the  squaw.  "Man- 
teo  no  be  killed.  Massawippa  heap  like  be  shot."  She 
sank  down  and  clung  to  his  feet. 

Turning,  he  struck  savagely  at  the  upturned,  plead 
ing  face,  and  climbed  through  the  window. 

Outside,  the  light  of  the  torch  made  him  a  fair  tar 
get  for  lurking  foes,  but  this  was  not  enough  for  Man- 
teo's  bravado,  fed  by  the  liquor  he  had  consumed  and 
roused  to  white  heat  by  a  sudden  realization  of  the  fact 
that,  while  others  had  defended  the  cottage  and  slain 
some  of  its  besiegers,  he  had  wasted  his  time  and 
strength  upon  a  wretched  squaw. 

Grasping  the  flaming  brand,  he  stood  erect,  and, 
swinging  it  above  his  head,  yelled  a  defiance  at  the 
unseen  enemy.  His  taunt  was  promptly  answered  by 
the  crack  of  a  rifle  from  the  edge  of  the  cane-brake; 
Manteo,  torch  in  hand,  fell  headlong  from  the  roof's 
edge,  dropped  in  a  shapeless  heap  in  front  of  the  bar 
ricaded  door,  and  the  extinguished  torch  scattered  a 
circle  of  sparks  beside  him. 

The  sounds  of  all  this  came  to  those  below.  "What 
is  to  do?"  cried  Father  Tobias,  sitting  up  and  pushing 
aside  Sister  Loving's  too  ardent  ministrations. 

"  'T  is  a  feint  to  draw  us  out,  belike,"  said  Patience. 


MISTRESS  JOY  87 

"  'T  was  even  so  they  did  when  they  fired  Prudence 
Rideout's  house  and  burned  it  over  her  head." 

"  'Pears  to  me,"  said  her  mother,  "that  I  smell  fire 
somewhur  beside  the  fireplace." 

Father  Tobias,  climbing  the  stairs,  met  poor  Massa- 
wippa  creeping  down.  "Manteo!"  she  gasped,  and 
pointed  to  the  front  of  the  house. 

"Was  't  he  who  fell?"  inquired  Jessop.  .  "Is  he  out 
there?"  And  Joy  ran  to  unbar  the  door. 

"Have  a  care,  Mistress  Joy,"  cried  David;  "neither 
of  our  loopholes  can  defend  you.  If  't  is  a  feint,  as 
seemeth  likely,  you  will  be  shot  as  soon  as  you  open 
the  door." 

Joy  was  too  good  a  frontierswoman  to  run  needless 
risks.  "We  know,"  she  said,  "that  they  are  very  few 
— not  enough  to  make  a  rush.  Do  you,  or  Master  Jes 
sop,  guard  the  opening.  If  Manteo  be  indeed  with 
out,  we  must  help  him." 

As  became  afterward  apparent,  the  besieging  Indians 
had,  in  the  death  of  Manteo,  accomplished  their  pur 
pose,  and  the  three  who  survived  the  encounter  had 
gone,  taking  their  dead  with  them. 

The  door  was  opened,  and  Manteo's  body  dragged 
inside  without  interference.  His  seared  right  hand  and 
the  extinguished  torch  told  their  own  tale  of  heroism. 

"Is  the  roof  fired?"  inquired  David,  and  the  squaw 
shook  her  head.  She  had  waited  to  see  that  the  shin 
gles  were  not  ignited  before  putting  the  heavy  window 
shutters  back  in  place. 

Seating  herself  on  the  floor,  she  took  the  dead  In 
dian's  head  in  her  lap  and  began  a  sort  of  crooning  or 
wailing,  inexpressibly  desolate  and  heart-moving. 

Father  Tobias  attempted  some  words  of  comfort, 
and  to  them  she  answered,  speaking  in  her  native 
tongue,  which  he  then  found,  with  surprise,  was  Man 
teo's  own  musical  Cherokee. 


88  MISTRESS   JOY 

"White  Father,"  she  said,  "this  brave  was  my  man. 
I  served  and  followed  him  in  the  wars  and  on  the  hunt 
ing-trail  for  ten  years  before  he  met  the  White  Father 
and  learned  to  believe  in  the  White  Father's  Manitou. 
When  it  came  that  the  White  Father  and  the  little  Day 
Star  were  leaving  the  land  where  Manteo  was  born,  to 
come  to  this  far  and  barren  country,  Manteo  \vent  with 
them. 

"Massawippa  would  fain  have  gone  too,  but  Manteo 
said,  'No.  In  that  far  country,  the  White  Father  needs 
a  brave  to  defend  him,  not  a  squaw  to  be  a  burden 
upon  him,'  and  he  drove  me  away  with  hard  words. 
Then  Massawippa  followed  day  and  night.  Day  and 
night  she  followed,  and  kept  the  little  boat  in  view. 
When  the  White  Father  built  this  house,  Massawippa 
stayed  with  the  Natchez  and  with  the  Chickasaws. 
She  became  an  outcast,  and  wandered  from  tribe  to 
tribe  and  from  camp  to  camp.  Manteo  was  angry 
when  he  saw  her  face.  Yet  sometimes,  when  he 
hunted  or  fished,  he  gave  poor  Massawippa  meat  be 
cause  she  had  once  been  his  squaw  and  had  been 
faithful." 

Jessop  and  David,  who  were  at  the  loopholes  again, 
guarding  the  cottage,  listened  to  this  extraordinary 
story,  David  translating  to  the  other  as  she  spoke. 
"Faith!  't  is  not  the  first  time  by  many,"  whispered 
Jessop,  with  a  whimsical  grimace,  "that  a  man  hath 
fed  two  families." 

Massawippa  turned  her  hopeless  eyes  to  the  men  at 
the  loopholes.  "Tell  them,"  she  said  to  Father  Tobias, 
"that  they  need  watch  no  more.  It  was  Manteo's  an 
cient  enemy,  Amehota.  He  had  followed  from  the 
Land  of  the  Rising  Sun,  swearing  to  take  Manteo's 
scalp,  and  now  that  he  knows  Manteo  is  dead  he  will  be 
swift  upon  the  trail  home." 

"Methought  't  was  some  such  thing,"  said  David,  as 


MISTRESS  JOY  89 

he  laid  his  gun  upon  the  table.  "  'T  is  no  general  up 
rising;  there  were  but  five  of  the  villains." 

"Forgive  me,  O  White  Father !"  begged  Massa- 
wippa,  "that  I  told  you  not  this  thing — that  I  spoke 
words  with  a  double  meaning.  Had  I  told  you  other 
wise,  you  would  have  cast  Manteo  out,  that  you  might 
live  in  safety." 

"Why,  not  so,  sister,"  remonstrated  Father  Tobias. 
"The  white  man,  who  serves  the  Great  Spirit,  does  not 
desert  a  brave  in  his  time  of  need."  But  the  old  squaw, 
her  unseeing  eyes  raised,  had  gone  back  to  her  deso 
late  chanting  over  the  dead  husband  who  had  in  his 
lifetime  despised  and  cast  her  off. 

"Women  are  curious  creatures,"  murmured  Jessop 
to  David.  "Without  regard  to  color,  a  gun-butt  or  a 
doubled  fist,  judiciously  used,  seems  ever  to  open  up 
the  way  to  their  affections.  Think  you  not  't  is  so?" 

David,  the  boy  in  his  arms,  laughed.  The  child 
stirred  sleepily,  and  put  up  a  loving  hand  to  stroke  the 
man's  face.  "What  Dabie  laugh  for?"  he  inquired. 


CHAPTER   X 

'APTUROUSLY  dawned  the  morn 
ing  after  the  uprising — that  uprising 
which  rose  to  so  inconsiderable  a 
height.  The  sky  arched  above  the 
glad  earth  with  an  intense  blueness. 
Sunshine  sifted  in  great  patches  of 
gold  through  the  bare  trees  which 
stood  like  sentinels  about  the  exposed  front  of  the 
little  cabin.  There  was  frost,  but  no  stress  of  cold  in 
the  January  air.  A  light  breeze  played  a  delicate  reed- 
like  monotone  through  the  pale-columned  cane  that 
curved  in  a  close  phalanx  about  the  sides  of  Father 
Tobias's  homestead. 

To  Joyce,  who  stood,  an  incarnation  of  the  new  day, 
among  her  flocks,  it  sounded  like  a  requiem.  It  minded 
her  of  the  poor  dead  Indian  back  in  the  little  cabin, 
whose  life,  however  useless  in  the  living,  went  out  in 
an  act  of  courage  and  self-sacrifice. 

Her  cheek  wore  its  usual  clear  pallor,  and  dark  shad 
ows,  wrought  by  anxiety  and  fatigue,  added  depth  to 
her  gray  eyes.  There  was  a  serious  beauty  about  the 
whole  face.  She  seemed  in  accord  with  the  strong 
sunlight  and  the  blue  sky,  the  wind,  with  its  breath 
of  early  morning  and  its  smell  of  vigorous,  earthy 
things,  drawn  up  from  the  source  of  all  life.  The  note 
which  was  brave  and  dominant  in  the  girl's  personal 
ity  chorded  .harmoniously  with  the  new  day. 

Jessop  stood  unobserved  and  watched  her,  first  from 

90 


MISTRESS  JOY  91 

the  cabin  window  and  then  from  the  doorway.  His 
thoughts  were  not  altogether  sweet.  The  stimulation 
of  last  night's  danger,  being  evaporated,  showed  him 
decidedly  the  worse  for  his  long  and  serious  illness. 
To  him  the  six  weeks  had  been  like  six  months,  for, 
with  all  his  nonchalance  and  seeming  indolence,  Jessop 
was  preeminently  a  man  of  action. 

Joy  had  been  struck,  during  the  terrible  strain  of  the 
night  previous,  by  his  gauntness  of  contour.  She  was 
not  apt  to  sentimentalize  over  a  convalescent,  man  or 
woman.  But  to  her  there  was  something  touching  in 
the  thin,  elegant  figure,  rather  under  than  above  the 
ordinary  height,  so  recently  helpless  from  illness,  yet 
keeping  doggedly  at  its  post,  thrusting  back  weakness 
and  exulting  in  untried  perils. 

He  was  like  the  bare  outline  of  a  man  hung  with 
misfit  clothes.  But  though  gaunt  and  haggard,  he  felt 
himself  well  enough  at  last  to  possess  no  further  excuse 
for  inaction.  The  girl,  in  her  fresh  vigor,  undaunted 
by  the  night's  dangers,  shamed  him.  He  strolled  out 
to  where,  back  in  the  little  clearing,  a  poultry-yard  had 
been  inclosed ;  the  chickens  and  ducks  and  geese,  tender 
objects  of  Joy's  solicitude,  were  breakfasting. 

"Shame  there,  Yellow-neck!  don't  be  greedy,"  Joyce 
cried,  and,  lifting  her  narrow,  short  stuff  gown,  she 
"shooed"  the  encroacher  away.  "Pretty-bill,  thou  art 
ever  generous  and  forgiving,"  she  added,  stooping  to 
smooth  the  portly  speckled  hen,  which  was  clucking 
amicably,  in  perfect  willingness  to  share  her  meal  with 
the  returning  Yellow-neck.  Joy  laughed.  "I  '11  e'en 
spare  my  bad  words,  Pretty-bill;  you  must  take  care 
of  your  own  breakfast." 

Manteo's  great  wolf-dog  had  crept  in  among  the  flut 
tering  chickens  and.  curled  himself,  with  a  desolate 
whine,  at  her  feet.  "Poor  Toka,"  she  said  softly, 
"you  must  find  another  master  now." 


92  MISTRESS  JOY 

Old  Faithful,  Father  Tobias's  monster  cat,  crouched 
blinking  on  the  fence.  Faithful  loved  the  cabin  and 
Father  Tobias.  Joy  she  tolerated,  though  that  young 
woman's  frenzied  upheavals  in  behalf  of  cleanliness 
often  worked  woe  to  her  feline  soul.  But  Manteo  and 
Manteo's  dog  had  been  her  twin  abominations,  and  she 
kept  her  one  eye  fixed  in  baleful  scrutiny  upon  Toka, 
as  he  lay  at  her  young  mistress's  feet.  Faithful's  crip 
pled  vision  had  first  commended  her  to  that  pity  in 
gentle  Father  Tobias's  heart  which  is  akin  to  love. 

From  her  benign,  merciful  old  father,  Joy  had  inher 
ited  the  bounteous  nature  which  in  her  became  so 
largely  maternal.  From  the  time  of  their  advent  in 
the  Mississippi  cane-brake,  where,  with  dauntless  faith, 
Tobias  Valentine  builded  his  temple  in  the  wilderness, 
Joy  had  always  a  larger  or  smaller  brood  of  detrimen 
tal  wayfarers  of  the  hairy  and  feathered  tribes,  which, 
yielding  to  an  adverse  fate,  had  fallen  by  the  wayside. 
An  ailing  chicken,  a  crippled  rabbit  or  wounded  bird, 
called  irresistibly  upon  the  mother  instinct  in  the  girl's 
complex  nature. 

Once,  when  a  nest  of  infantile  snakelets  had  been 
unearthed,  after  Manteo's  neat  and  conclusive  despatch 
of  the  mother  snake,  Joy  stood  a  moment  eying  them 
wistfully.  She  had  a  shuddering  fear  of  all  crawling 
things,  but  their  helplessness  made  its  instant  appeal. 

"Ugh!  No  pet  snake,"  quoth  the  Indian.  "Snake 
like  Huron.  Sting  friend.  Eat  chicken.  Manteo  kill 
'im  now;  kill  'im  sure."  And  the  girl,  barely  fifteen, 
covering  eyes  and  ears,  fled  to  the  house  while  the 
butchery  went  on. 

Satan,  a  mere  kitten,  remained  in  the  track  of  a 
storm  of  shot  and  powder  which  cleared  a  woodland 
near  by  of  many  dangerous  beasts.  "Poor  kitty,  he  was 
left,  mayhap,  for  some  wise  purpose,"  cooed  Joy,  "and 
I  '11  mother  the  poor  baby."  Last  night  gave  Satan, 


MISTRESS   JOY  93 

as  well  as  Manteo,  his  chance,  and  he  had  paid  his  debt 
to  the  young  foster  mother. 

"Faith,  fair  Mistress  Joy,"  Jessop  called,  as  he  con 
templated  the  girl  and  her  flock,  "you  thrifty  birds  put 
worms  like  me  to  the  blush.  'T  were  some  salving 
to  my  conscience  were  you  less  intent  on  catching  them 
at  this  hour." 

"Good  day,  Master  Jessop,"  returned  Joy,  demurely. 
"You  may  have  seen  it  writ  large  in  copy-books,  'Pro 
crastination  is  the  thief  of  time.'  Was  that,  pray,  what 
brought  you  out  so  early?" 

Jessop  looked  upon  the  pretty  picture  she  made,  sur 
rounded  by  her  feathered  dependents,  all  straining 
eagerly,  as  is  the  wont  of  their  betters,  to  pick  up  the 
biggest  crumbs. 

"Is  there  aught  about  the  cottage  I  could  do  to 
help  you?"  he  inquired,  with  diffident  abruptness. 

"You  are  not  strong  enough  to  work,  are  you?" 
deprecated  Joy,  kindly. 

"I  should  have  doubted  it  myself  yestermorn;  but, 
holy  blue!  Mistress  Valentine,  what  right  hath  a  man 
with  not  one  cent  in  his  pocket  to  fine  gentleman  airs  ? 
I  must  e'en  to  work,  and  pay  my  score." 

Joy  turned  toward  him  a  face  in  which  the  bright 
ness  was  quite  dashed.  Jessop's  bitterness,  his  ungra 
cious  outbursts,  always  wounded  her  deeply,  but  she 
answered  steadily:  "I  applaud  your  decision,  sir.  'If 
a  man  will  not  work,  neither  shall  he  eat.' ' 

"  'T  is  a  frequent  text  with  you,  Mistress  Joy,  and  a 
true  saying  as  well,"  agreed  Jessop.  "I  may  work  and 
die;  but  I  shall  not  live  and  beg." 

Joy  was  overcome  with  swift  remorse.  "You  surely 
know  I  meant  no  such  thing  as  that.  My  father  is  most 
willing  that  you  be  provided  at  his  table  with  material 
food,  and  both  of  us  long  earnestly  to  feed  you  with 
that  spiritual  bread  without  which  the  body  itself 


94  MISTRESS  JOY 

faileth.  O  Master  Jessop,  would  that  I  could  show 
you  how  good  a  thing  it  is !" 

She  had  approached  him,  her  eager  eyes  alight,  her 
red  lips  apart.  Jessop  looked  at  her  a  trifle  whim 
sically.  She  was,  he  thought,  the  embodiment  of  youth 
and  love;  and  these  (to  him)  canting  phrases  seemed 
quaintly  incongruous  from  such  lips.  But  it  was  clear 
that  his  best  chance  for  holding  Joy's  attention  as  a 
lover  was  to  present  himself  as  an  interesting  penitent; 
so,  with  some  effort,  he  drew  a  long  face  and  professed 
a  desire  to  hear  more. 

The  young  enthusiast  was  delighted.  "My  father 
will  be  so  happy !"  she  said.  Joy's  private  opinion  \vas 
that  nobody  who  listened  to  her  Father  Tobias  could 
resist  him,  and  she  looked  upon  their  penitent  as  al 
ready  saved. 

"Nay,  Mistress  Joy,"  insinuated  Jessop,  "your  father 
is  a  very  busy  man.  Many  depend  on  him.  If  you 
could  give  me  instruction  't  would  perchance  be  better." 

"Oh,  I  shall !"  agreed  Joy.  "I  think  now  of  so 
many  things  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  but  one  word  of 
father's  is  worth  ten  of  mine.  His  ministrations  are 
always  blessed.  It  discourages  me  sometimes,  for  you 
know  I  humbly  believe  myself  called.  I  look  forward 
— my  poor  life  is  consecrated  to  the  preaching  of  the 
Word." 

Jessop's  face  wore  an  expression  of  strong  disrelish, 
but,  warned  and  disciplined  somewhat  by  former  inter 
views,  he  forbore  remonstrances. 

"  'T  is  a  beautiful  hope  to  look  forward  to,"  finished 
Joy,  innocently. 

"Would  you  rather  be  a  Methody  preacher  in  the 
wilderness  here,  than  a  lady,  such  as  you  are  fitted  to 
be,  with  title  and  wealth,  the  world  at  your  feet  and  a 
man  at  your  command  who  loved  only  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  asserted  Joy,  with  the  prompt  finality  of 


MISTRESS  JOY  95 

complete  ignorance,  the  certainty  of  the  untempted. 
"These  worldly  things  of  which  you  speak  be  but  husks 
which  starve  the  soul." 

"Husks,  are  they?"  inquired  Jessop,  as  he  followed 
her  toward  the  house.  "Then  you  think,  do  you,  Mis 
tress  Joy,  that  this  gospel  you  offer  me  is  the  kernel  of 
the  matter  ?" 

"It  is  the  seed  of  eternal  life,"  declared  Joy,  seriously 
and  sweetly.  "I  long  inexpressibly  to  see  you  lay  hold 
upon  it.  Master  Jessop,  my  soul  loveth  thy  soul.  Yea, 
I  could  say  to  thee  as  Jacob  said  to  the  angel,  'I  will 
not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me.'  Even  so  can 
not  I  see  you  depart  from  among  us  till  you  have 
blessed  our  ministrations  by  accepting  the  truth." 

What  an  impossible  girl !  Jessop  would  have  said 
that  such  words  from  such  lips  could  excite  only  amuse 
ment  in  him;  yet  now  he  found  the  tears  in  his  eyes 
at  the  innocent  kindness  of  the  young  creature. 

"Mistress  Joy,"  he  said,  with  a  quick  impulse,  and  it 
was  as  though  another  spoke  rather  than  himself,  "I  do 
believe  in  your  true  concern  for  me.  I  have  had  little 
love  in  my  life.  I  have  been  fawned  upon,  I  have  been 
cajoled.  God  knows  I  was  always  a  ready  enough  tool 
to  any  who  sought  so  to  use  me.  I  have  been  indulged 
madly  by  those  who — who  cast  me  off  when  I  wounded 
their  pride;  but  as  for  such  pure  love  as  this  of  which 
you  speak,  I  have  known  naught  of  it.  Meseems  that 
for  its  sake  a  man  might  do  anything,  be  anything,  you 
desired." 

"Not  that  I  desired,"  returned  Joy,  with  some  gentle 
reproof  in  her  tone — "that  God  desires." 

"Oh,  but  the  instrument,"  urged  Jessop.  "Surely 
I  remember  hearing  you  say  that  God  works  through 
instruments?" 

"Yea,"  answered  Joy,  "and  I  should  feel  blessed 
among  women  to  be  that  instrument." 


96  MISTRESS   JOY 

It  trembled  on  his  lips  to  say  there  could  be  none 
fairer  nor  sweeter,  but  the  sight  of  Mistress  Longa- 
necker  in  the  doorway — they  had  paused,  in  the  ear 
nestness  of  their  speech,  before  again  entering  the  cabin 
• — checked  their  conversation. 

"  'What,  ho !  Is  the  good  dame  dancing  mad  ?  Hath 
she  been  bitten  by  a  tarantula?'  "  quoted  Jessop.  Mis 
tress  Longanecker  signaled  them  with  incomprehen 
sible  gestures  and  grimaces,  as  she  pointed  to  the  room 
behind  her,  which  appeared  to  contain  the  cause  of 
her  perturbation.  Joy  hurried  forward  alone,  and  Jes 
sop,  following  more  slowly,  saw  her  enter  and  greet 
Ambrose  Gibson  and  Glass  Parkinson,  two  of  the  stew 
ards  of  the  Society.  These  two  and  Father  Tobias 
were  in  earnest  conversation. 

"He  was  a  brother  in  Christ  and  a  member  of  our 
Society,"  insisted  Master  Gibson. 

"He  was  this  woman's  husband,"  corrected  Pastor 
Valentine.  "  'Whom  God  hath  joined,  let  not  man  put 
asunder.' ' 

Massawippa,  shrunken  and  fallen  together  from 
grief,  her  long  vigil,  and  abstinence  from  food,  sat  at 
the  dead  Indian's  head,  moaning  softly.  Her  bleared 
eyes  were  raised,  fixed  and  sightless,  to  the  ceiling. 
Her  face  was  seamed  and  creased  and  marred.  The 
weather-beaten  dwelling  of  her  strong,  patient  soul  was 
well-nigh  ruinous.  It  had  been  raftered  and  roofed 
with  hardship,  clapboarded  with  abnegation,  the  nails 
driven  deep  by  the  hammer  of  necessity — fate. 

"It  is  not  seemly,"  asserted  Glass  Parkinson,  a  tall, 
gray,  angular  old  man,  "that  heathen  rites  be  done 
upon  the  body  of  one  who  hath  accepted  Christ  as  his 
salvation." 

"I  can  see  no  sin,"  persisted  the  pastor,  with  gen 
tle  obstinacy,  "in  giving  the  body  of  this  man  to  his 
wife.  I  shall  call  the  Society  together  and  hold  the 


MISTRESS  JOY  97 

burial  service  here  in  this  house  at  sunset.  Two  of 
this  woman's  people  have  promised  to  come  at  moon- 
rise  to  bear  the  body  away  and  inter  it  according  to 
their  ancient  customs." 

"In  death,  every  man  goeth  to  his  own  gods,"  said 
David's  voice  from  the  doorway.  He  came  forward, 
laid  a  hand  on  Father  Tobias's  shoulder,  looked  smil 
ingly  from  one  to  other  of  the  two  stewards,  and 
added :  "Content  ye,  my  friends.  A  creed  is  a  thing 
for  a  man  to  live  by." 

"Perchance  ye  're  right,  Master  Batchelor,"  debated 
Gibson,  thoughtfully.  "I  warrant  ye,  't  were  better 
for  the  world  that  more  folk  lived  by  their  creeds, 
rather  than  put  them  off  as  a  thing  to  die  by." 

"That  's  what  Patience  says,"  agreed  Sister  Loving, 
in  her  plaintive  treble.  "She  says  to  me,  Patience  says, 
'Mommy,  if  there  was  more  folks  in  the  Society  that 
minded  their  own  business  and  let  other  folks'  busi 
ness  alone,  't  would  be  a  sight  better.' ' 

This  highly  relevant  comment  was  received  in  abso 
lute  silence  by  all  save  Jessop,  who,  in  the  hope  of 
hearing  more,  agreed  courteously. 

"Now,  Brother  Gibson  and  you,  Brother  Parkinson, 
ye  're  not  women."  The  men  so  distinguished  looked 
extremely  uncomfortable,  but  were  fain  to  admit  the 
truth  of  her  statement.  And  Jessop  whispered  to  Joy, 
"That  leaves  your  father,  Master  Batchelor,  and  myself 
unclassified." 

"Ye  're  not  women;  neither  of  ye  knows,  as  Pa 
tience  says  to  me,  says  she,  what 't  is  to  be  a  wife,"  the 
sister  went  on.  "Now,  here  's  our  good  pastor ;  he  hath 
been  wedded  once,"  she  caressed  the  numeral  with  a 
tender  emphasis,  and  lingered  upon  it  as  though  to  sug 
gest  that  the  same  thing  might  happen  again,  and  the 
two  stewards,  who  were  themselves  husbands  and 
heads  of  families,  glanced  at  each  other,  exchang- 


9S  MISTRESS  JOY 

ing  something  very  like  a  smile,  in  spite  of  their 
austerity. 

"Brother  Gibson,  Brother  Parkinson,  will  ye  help 
me  to  call  the  Society  together  for  the  burial  service?" 
interposed  Pastor  Valentine,  and,  stepping  outside  with 
the  two  men  and  David,  he  left  Sister  Loving  assuring 
the  irresponsive  Massawippa  that  she,  Sister  Loving, 
knew  just  how  it  all  was,  and  could  appreciate  her 
sufferings. 

Statements  as  to  what  Patience  said,  tender  commen 
dations  of  Father  Tobias,  and  random  references  to 
almost  every  subject  which  nobody  would  have  men 
tioned  made  up  the  balance  of  Sister  Loving's  dis 
course. 

The  cabin  was  speckless  and  ordered,  through  Mis 
tress  Longanecker's  ministrations.  "She  is  so  good," 
deprecated  Joy,  "that  you  must  forgive  her  innocent 
eccentricities." 

Jessop,  to  whom  the  remark  was  addressed,  drew 
his  mouth  down  at  the  corners  with  mock  solemnity. 
"I  will  forgive  her  everything,"  he  said,  "till  she  dow- 
ereth  me  with  her  affections,  even  as  she  doth  our  good, 
unsuspecting  Father  Tobias." 

"Fie !"  exclaimed  Joy,  though  the  dimples  about  her 
mouth  belied  the  seriousness  of  her  reproach;  "she  is, 
as  I  am  sure  she  herself  could  tell  you,  a  better  woman 
than  you  will  ever  be." 

Jessop's  complaisant  humor  held  throughout  the  day. 
His  black  mood  of  self-torment  and  bitterness,  which 
Joy  had  come  to  recognize  in  her  weeks  of  nursing  and 
care  for  him,  kept  itself  quite  aloof.  He  insisted  upon 
helping  her,  awkwardly  it  is  true,  with  all  her  tasks, 
saying  in  explanation  that,  Manteo  being  gone,  he  con 
sidered  himself  man-of-all-work,  and  begged  most  ear 
nestly  to  be  so  considered  by  her. 

"I  have  turned  a  new  leaf,  Mistress  Joy,"  he  assured 


MISTRESS  JOY  99 

her.  "And  at  the  head  of  that  new  leaf  is  inscribed, 
'The  most  humble  and  obedient — and  loving — servant 
to  command  of  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine.'  Signed : 
'Charles  Edward  Mountfalcon  a'  Jessop.' ' 

Joy  smiled.  "And  I  have  only  one  small  name," 
she  commented.  "  'T  is  the  custom  of  our  Society. 
The  giving  of  more  names  than  one  is  counted  a 
worldly  frivolity."  She  sighed  a  little,  for  his  ampli 
tude  of  title  carried  an  elegant  suggestion. 

"  'T  is  a  matter  which  may  be  mended,"  hinted  Jes 
sop.  "I  myself  have  one  which  I — "  he  caught  him 
self  back  in  mid-speech,  and  hesitated.  He  had  begun 
in  gentle  badinage,  and  he  ended  with  a  passionate  ear 
nestness  which  surprised  and  annoyed,  rather  than 
pleased  him. 

"Mind  ye  tell  the  bees,  Joy,"  cautioned  Mistress 
Longanecker,  as  she  tied  on  her  hood  preparatory  to 
departure.  "Oh,  't  is  nothing  to  smile  at.  The  bees 
must  be  told,  or  you  will  lose  them.  Mind,  about  the 
edge  of  the  evening,  when  they  be  all  hived,  go  ye  and 
strike  upon  the  hive — strike  gently — and  they  will  an 
swer  by  their  buzzing.  Patience  says,  says  she,  that 
will  mean,  'What  is  't?'  or  'What  want  ye?'  Says  ye 
then,  softly,  'Manteo  be  dead.' ' 

She  gathered  her  shawl  about  her.  "Patience,"  she 
called,  her  voice  dropping  to  the  heavy  bass  note  it 
sometimes  took  in  moments  of  excitement,  usually  di 
rected  toward  her  meek  daughter,  "come  on,  and  step 
brisk.  Ye  know  well  enough  I  'm  afeard  to  go  home 
alone." 

The  idea  of  Sister  Longanecker  being  "afeard"  of 
anything,  man  or  beast,  struck  Jessop  as  so  comical 
that  he  laughed  immoderately.  And  when  the  gentle 
Patience,  she  of  the  bulging  eye  and  the  recessive  chin, 
meek  fount  of  opinion  for  her  drastic  parent,  came 
trundling  by,  rifle  upon  shoulder,  he  laughed  the  more. 


ioo  MISTRESS  JOY 

"What  is  't  about  the  bees?"  he  asked  Joy.  "Shall 
you  really  tell  them?" 

She  opened  her  clear  eyes  very  wide.  "Heard  ye 
not,  Master  Jessop,  that  I  said  I  would?" 

"Aye,  but  saying  and  doing  are  oft  quite  different 
things,"  smiling. 

"With  the  world's  people,  yes.  But  with  us — with 
me — a  promise  is  held  sacred." 

"Heaven  send,  then,  that  you  make  me  a  promise, 
Mistress  Joy,  some  day,  since  you  are  so  faithful  in 
the  keeping  of  them,"  he  returned,  and  was  again 
vexed  at  the  fervor  in  his  own  tones. 

When  this  mood  was  upon  him,  Joy  felt  a  vague 
distrust  of  both  Jessop  and  herself.  She  hastened  to 
say :  "I  have  never  told  the  bees,  because  we  have  not 
before  been  visited  by  death.  But  the  country  people 
hereabout  say — and  perchance  't  is  true,  for  God  made 
the  bees  too  and  gave  them  their  wisdom — that  they 
will  not  prosper  unless  you  love  them  and  tell  them 
of  your  joys  and  sorrows.  'T  is  held  that  if  you  fail 
to  do  this  they  will  leave  you  and  swarm  elsewhere, 
or,  grieved  at  your  coldness,  perish  in  the  hive." 

All  day,  as  the  usual  household  affairs  went  for 
ward,  Massawippa  sat  motionless,  the  only  sign  of  life 
she  gave  the  low,  moaning  chant  which  sometimes 
rose  to  a  wail  and  sometimes  dropped  to  a  whisper. 
Toka  raised  his  head  from  the  door-stone  at  intervals, 
and  added  a  long-drawn,  despairing  howl. 

"Faith,"  said  Jessop,  finally,  "if  this  thing  keeps  up 
much  longer,  I  shall  be  ready  to  be  buried  myself  by 
nightfall."  The  neighbors  were  in  and  out,  and  their 
direct  and  rather  distressing  comments  did  little  to 
soothe  his  irritated  nerves. 

Delight  Dunn,  after  quoting  unnecessarily  pointed 
passages  of  Scripture  for  some  time,  expressed  the 
opinion  that  it  was  more  than  likely  Manteo  was  not 


MISTRESS  JOY  101 

among  those  saved.  Peter,  her  husband,  was  inclined 
to  moralize  upon  sudden  death  in  general,  with  dis 
quieting  personal  applications  as  they  occurred  to  him. 

In  short,  these  plain  'Methodist  folk  used  no  art  to 
coddle  hypersensitive  feelings,  but  rather  appeared  to 
take  pleasure  in  discussing  the  most  painful  facts  in 
the  most  public  manner.  Altogether,  it  was  a  relief 
to  Joy  as  well  as  to  Jessop  when  an  interruption  came. 
The  sound  of  a  horse's  galloping  hoofs  was  followed 
by  the  appearance  of  Colonel  Burr  upon  Judge  Bruin's 
favorite  tall,  black  saddle-horse,  with  Mistress  Wilful 
Guion  riding  pillion  behind  him. 

The  errand  was  surely  not  a  cheerful  one,  yet  the 
girl's  dark  eyes  were  wells  of  happiness,  her  red  lips 
curved  into  smiles  in  spite  of  her  efforts  for  gravity. 
"Oh,  Joy,"  she  cried,  "do  show  me  just  where  you 
stood  when  you  shot  your  Indian.  And  did  you  aim 
for  to  kill  him?" 

"I  aimed  not  at  all,  to  the  best  of  my  recollection," 
returned  Joy,  a  little  dryly.  "And  as  for  my  Indian, 
methinks  he  belongeth  by  right  of  trove  to  Master 
David  Batchelor,  who  slew  him  without  ruth." 

"And  were  you  kneeling,  Joy?  And  did  he  have 
you  by  the  hair?  'T  is  so  told  in  the  settlement." 

"  "T  was  a  very  plain  matter.  I  had  the  rifles  to  load, 
and  when  the  man  broke  in  the  door  and  came  close 
to  me  I  fired  one  of  them  at  him.  It  appears  to  me 
that  any  fool  would  have  done  as  much." 

"Most  fools  do  not,  however,  Mistress  Valentine," 
Burr  put  in,  "and  some  wise  people,  even,  fall  consid 
erably  short  of  heroism." 

"Sister  Loving  Longanecker  did  far  more  than  I," 
protested  Joy,  "and  yet  nobody  calls  her  a  heroine." 

"Oh,  but  she  is  one,"  supplied  Jessop,  "whenever 
Mistress  Patience  bids  her  be."  There  was  a  quickly 
suppressed  laugh  from  the  more  worldly  minded  at 


io2  MISTRESS  JOY 

this  sally.  The  advent  of  Mistress  Wilful  was  soon 
followed  by  the  assembling  of  other  members  of  the 
Society  gathered  for  the  simple  funeral  ceremonies. 
Colonel  Burr,  whose  presence,  it  appeared,  was  acci 
dental,  he  having  been  at  some  pains  to  state  that  he 
had  merely  overtaken  Mistress  Wilful  and  set  her  so 
far  upon  her  journey,  soon  departed. 

As  he  went  forth  to  mount  his  horse  Jessop  accom 
panied  him,  and  in  supplying  some  added  details  of 
last  night's  adventure  spoke  with  warm  admiration  of 
Joyce  Valentine's  part  in  it. 

"So  soon — so  soon,"  laughed  Burr,  "has  innocency 
and  girlish  simplicity  subdued  our  gallant  Lothario!" 

"Nay,"  returned  Jessop,  not  altogether  pleased.  "I 
could  ever  have  appreciated  such  traits  at  their  worth 
had  I  met  them." 

"My  friend,"  remarked  Burr,  "an  indifference  to 
champagne  may  signify  a  natural  simplicity  of  taste, 
but  more  oft  it  results  from  a  too  prolonged  acquain 
tance  with  the  best-stocked  wine-cellars." 

"I  take  the  figure  for  what  't  is  worth,"  retorted 
Jessop,  merrily,  "and  I  reply  that  I  am  by  no  means 
weary  of  champagne ;  and  here,  in  this  primitive  place, 
I  have  stumbled  upon  a  new  and  entrancing  brand. 
At  least  't  is  new  to  me,  but  't  is,  I  '11  swear,  the  genu 
ine.  Its  stimulating  quality  is  its  own.  Its  sparkle — 
even  its  froth — is  not  supplied  by  artificial  gases — 
't  is  native.  'T  is  a  living  fount  which  perpetually 
tosses  up  bubbles  of  kaleidoscopic  luster.  The  bubbles 
are  fugitive,  the  luster  varies,  but  that  which  illumines 
the  fountain  is  a  steady-shining  soul.  Faugh !  colonel, 
how  came  we  coupling  anything  artificial  with  this 
pure,  untrammeled  creature?" 

And,  waving  the  other  a  smiling  farewell,  he  re 
turned  to  the  room  where  the  circle  of  benches  and 
chairs  was  already  filled  with  a  primly  dressed  and 
prim-mannered  gathering. 


MISTRESS  JOY  103 

Father  Tobias  knelt  in  their  midst  and  prayed.  A 
hymn  was  sung,  then  he  arose  and  spoke  feelingly  of 
the  dead.  He  repeated  the  parable  of  the  talents,  and 
reminded  them  that  while  little  had  been  vouchsafed 
poor  Manteo,  he  had  been  faithful  over  that  little. 

"This,  our  brother,  who  was  yesterday  in  our  midst 
and  is  now  gone  hence,"  said  the  preacher,  "came  to 
this  country  with  me  fourteen  years  ago.  He  had 
been  convicted  of  sin  under  my  ministration  in  the 
Carolinas,  and,  leaving  all  for  truth, — leaving  wife, 
home,  and  friends, — he  followed  me  for  the  truth's  sake 
into  the  wilderness." 

This  version  of  Manteo's  wanderings  rather  startled 
Jessop,  but  the  congregation,  who  were  in  the  habit  of 
regarding  all  things  from  the  spiritual  side,  saw  in 
it  nothing  strained.  The  body  of  the  funeral  discourse 
would  sound  strange  indeed  to  modern  ears.  As  was 
the  custom  of  the  time,  the  speaker  handled  with  great 
plainness  the  faults  of  the  deceased,  drew  from  them 
such  lessons  as  he  deemed  salutary  to  his  hearers,  dwelt 
at  length  upon  the  insecurity  of  life,  the  possibility  of 
sudden  death,  and  closed  with  an  admonition  to  watch 
fulness  and  diligence  in  well-doing.  Many  of  the  sis 
ters  wept — not,  certainly,  over  the  loss  of  Manteo,  but 
apparently  at  the  stern,  searching  exhortation  of  their 
pastor. 

The  Indians,  who  had  come,  in  answer  to  Massa- 
wippa's  request,  to  bear  away  Manteo's  body,  lingered 
outside.  Their  dusky  faces,  peering  through  the  win 
dow  to  watch  the  "medicine-man  of  the  palefaces," 
gave  added  strangeness  to  the  wild  and  singular  scene. 
All  through  the  services  sounded  Massawippa's  plaint. 
The  dead  Indian  lay  uncoffined;  Massawippa  had  re 
jected  the  offer  of  a  coffin  for  the  body. 

Through  the  open  door  stole  the  tender  evening 
light.  It  lay  upon  the  spotlessly  scrubbed  floor,  touched 
softly  the  grim,  bronzed  features  of  the  dead  man,  and 


104  MISTRESS  JOY 

lost  itself  in  the  veil  of  Massawippa's  heavy  hair,  as 
she  sat,  her  forehead  on  her  knees,  huddled  at  the  head 
of  the  rude  bier.  It  lingered  lovingly  on  the  homely 
furnishings  of  the  room.  The  cats,  wild  and  tame,  lay, 
for  once  reconciled,  side  by  side  on  the  hearth.  Toka, 
who  had  never  been  known  to  enter  the  house  before, 
sat,  straight  and  tall,  evidently  feeling  himself  chief 
mourner,  at  his  master's  feet. 

David  looked  across  at  Joy's  rapt  countenance.  Her 
eyes  were  slightly  raised  as  she  listened  reverently 
while  her  father  invoked  a  blessing.  Her  face  was 
full  of  a  tender  sorrow,  yet  absolutely  peaceful.  She 
looked,  in  her  girlish  fervor,  like  a  young  saint;  and 
Batchelor  remembered,  with  a  sudden  force  of  con 
trast,  the  Amazonian  Mistress  Valentine  of  last  night. 
He  was  strongly  aware  that  there  was  more  than  one 
Joyce.  Which  was  the  real?  Or  were  they  all  real? 
And  were  there  not  yet  other  facets  to  that  affluent 
young  nature  which  had  not  been  developed  and  pre 
sented  ? 

While  he  debated,  the  dying  light  seemed  suddenly 
to  concentrate  itself  upon  the  brightness  of  her  head 
and  then  go  out,  leaving  the  room  in  twilight,  so  that 
as  the  Indians  stepped  with  soundless  tread  to  lift  Man- 
teo  and  bear  him  away  on  this  first  station  to  the  happy 
hunting-grounds,  they  seemed  like  vague  figures  in  a 
dream. 

Father  Tobias  followed  them  outside,  and  Joyce  and 
Jessop  were  halted  on  the  door-stone  by  Mistress  Long- 
anecker.  "Patience  says  to  me,  says  she,"  cooed  Sister 
Loving,  "  'Mommy,  is  Master  Valentine  a-goin'  with 
them  Indians  over  into  the  Chippewa  country?  'Cause 
if  he  is,'  says  she,  'you  Ve  got  to  go  'long  and  take 
care  of  him/  ' 

Reassured  as  to  the  intentions  of  Father  Tobias,  Sis 
ter  Longanecker  again  brought  up  the  subject  of  the 


MISTRESS  JOY  105 

bees.  "Ain't  ye  told  'em  yet  ?  Why,  Joyce  Valentine, 
go  this  minute,  or  ye  '11  be  lackin'  for  honey,  let  alone 
wax,  next  fall." 

The  members  of  the  Society  were  dispersing.  Wil 
ful  Guion  paused  longer  than  the  others  for  a  moment's 
low-toned  speech  with  Joy.  Then,  mindful  of  Sister 
Loving's  urgency,  Joyce,  with  Jessop  still  following, 
turned  her  steps  toward  where  the  hives,  ranged  in 
orderly  rows,  stood  upon  the  edge  of  a  tiny  buckwheat 
patch,  planted  for  the  maintenance  of  the  bees. 

The  hives  were  of  the  old-time  conical  shape,  made 
of  tawny  sedge-grass  wrapped  into  a  great  cable  with 
cotton  twine,  and  then  twisted  round  and  round  into  a 
pyramid. 

The  tall,  erect  young  figure  stepped  lightly  toward 
the  line  of  hives.  Softly,  with  her  open  hand,  she 
struck  upon  each,  and,  when  answered  by  a  hum  of  in 
quiry  from  the  inmates,  bent  down  and  whispered, 
"Manteo  is  dead." 

As  she  spoke  to  the  last  hive,  the  desolate  little  cor 
tege  passed  the  corner  of  the  field  on  its  way  to  the 
canoe,  and  so  onward  to  the  Chickasaw  country.  The 
men  bore  their  dead  upon  an  open  hurdle ;  after  trudged 
the  old  squaw  and  the  gaunt  hound,  with  lowered 
heads.  The  bearers,  shod  in  silence,  made  no  appeal 
to  the  ear.  Their  gray  forms  against  the  gray  evening 
asked  scarcely  more  of  the  eye.  Shadow  of  a  sound, 
echo  of  a  picture,  if  it  made  little  demand  upon  the 
physical  senses,  its  spiritual  significance  called  strenu 
ously  upon  the  heart. 

"A  woman — a  dog,"  said  Jessop ;  "two  things  which 
follow  a  man  even  unto  the  end."  He  turned  and 
looked  at  his  companion,  and  his  heart  swelled  with 
the  purest  tenderness  it  had  ever  known.  How  fair 
she  was,  how  young,  how  inexpressibly  sweet,  how  full 
of  hope.  And  yet,  to  his  thinking,  what  a  gray-shad- 


106  MISTRESS  JOY 

owed,  sad  existence  hers  had  been!  He  recognized 
instinctively  in  the  girl  that  which  would  answer 
promptly  to  the  call  of  all  his  world  rated  as  happiness. 
Would  she  ever  know  it  ?  Was  he  to  lead  her  into  the 
sunshine?  He  bent  toward  her  with  an  inarticulate 
murmur,  and  caught  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"Mistress  Joyce,"  he  began,  a  little  hesitatingly,  "I 
who  am  but  a  drone  in  the  hive,  think  shame  to  make 
promises  to  you,  but  I  have  had  some  speech  with 
David  Batchelor.  He  offers  to  give  me  such  \vork  as 
my  unskilled  hands  are  able  to  perform,  and  to  teach 
me  further  skill.  'T  was  for  thy  sake  I  made  these 
plans — that  I  might  be  near  thee.  Art  pleased,  Mis 
tress  Joyce?  Turn,  I  pray  you,  and  let  me  see  your 
face." 

Steps  sounded  on  the  path  behind  them,  and  David 
Batchelor,  passing  on  his  way  to  the  highroad,  paused 
to  give  them  good  evening.  The  little  canoe,  with  the 
two  Indians  dipping  noiseless  paddles  at  prow  and 
stern,  the  stark  burden  between,  the  crouching  squaw 
at  head  and  the  old  dog  at  foot  of  it,  grounded  upon 
the  opposite  shore.  They  stood  and  watched  the  two 
men  lift  the  body,  the  squaw  shoulder  paddles  and 
canoe,  and  the  three,  with  the  dog  following,  lose  them 
selves  in  the  virgin  forest  beyond. 

'  'T   is  the  one  and  unsatisfactory  riddle  of  the 
Sphinx,"  commented  Jessop,  as  he  gazed. 

"Out  of  the  wilderness  he  came,"  responded  David, 
"and,  lo !  the  wilderness  hath  swallowed  him  up." 


CHAPTER  XI 


T  "The  Meadows"  the  gin  had  broken 
down.  It  was  at  that  date  the  primi 
tive  Whitney  gin,  and  subject  to 
strange  disconcertions  and  balks. 
When  Jessop  arrived,  he  found  Batch- 
elor's  motley  tribe  of  employees  set  to 
the  work  of  picking  staple  from  seed 
by  hand.  In  a  long,  low  shed,  open  on  three  sides, 
sat  negroes,  Indians,  men,  women,  and  children — such 
unassorted  humanity  as  David  Batchelor  had  been  able 
to  gather  for  the  work — and  with  more  or  less  skilful 
fingers  separated  the  fleece  from  the  germ. 

David  himself,  in  a  blue  cottonade  blouse  open  at 
the  throat,  and  with  a  white  kerchief  knotted  beneath 
its  loose  collar,  was  working  earnestly  at  the  recalci 
trant  gin.  Little  Reason,  the  boy  whom  Jessop  had 
seen  on  the  night  of  the  attack  upon  the  cabin,  followed 
him,  constant  as  the  dog-star  to  the  moon,  and  played 
at  mending  imaginary  gins. 

The  newcomer  introduced  to  his  work  and  fellow 
workmen,  Batchelor  scanned  his  face  keenly  for  signs 
of  dismay.  Jessop,  still  gaunt  from  illness,  wore  his 
long-skirted  coat,  knee-breeches,  and  cocked  hat.  In 
deed,  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  make  a  change  to  a 
more  appropriate  costume,  since  the  clothing  in  which 
he  stood  was  all  he  possessed.  Batchelor  watched,  with 
a  twinkle  of  amusement  in  his  eye,  and  yet  with  entire 
approval,  as  Jessop,  after  a  proper  greeting,  seated 

107 


io8  MISTRESS  JOY 

self  between  a  gigantic  negress  and  a  young  Indian 
boy,  and,  questioning  with  his  usual  courteous  manner, 
proceeded  in  a  most  amicable  fashion  to  learn  from 
them  the  nature  of  his  novel  task. 

Then,  in  the  stress  of  his  work,  the  master  forgot  his 
new  workman.  Improvement  in  the  agriculture  of 
his  section  was  a  passion  with  David  Batchelor.  He 
was  a  typical  son  of  the  soil.  The  development  of  the 
cotton-raising  industry  lay  as  close  to  his  heart  as  the 
singing  of  a  people's  lyrics  might  lie  to  the  heart  of 
the  poet.  With  the  ardor  of  a  poet  constructing  son 
nets,  he  had  attacked  the  problem  of  ginning  the 
product. 

The  original  Whitney  gin,  invented  by  Eli  Whitney, 
a  Massachusetts  school-teacher,  was  in  many  respects 
unsatisfactory.  Reason's  father  was  a  skilled  mechanic 
and  inventor  whom  David  had  induced  to  come  from 
Scotland,  in  hope  to  have  the  gin  perfected.  This  man 
had  set  sail  from  home  with  wife  and  child,  and,  the 
wife  dying  on  the  voyage,  had  come  to  "The  Meadows" 
with  his  baby  in  his  arms.  Here  he  found  no  woman 
to  care  for  the  boy,  but,  in  the  master  of  the  house, 
one  as  tender  as  a  woman,  if  not  so  skilled.  And 
when  a  fever  carried  off  the  father  in  the  following 
spring,  David  made  the  boy  his  own.  Batchelor  was 
still  laboring  to  complete  the  work  the  Scotchman  had 
left  unfinished. 

Now,  in  entire  absorption,  he  bent  an  intent  face 
above  his  work.  Hammer  in  hand,  his  blue  sleeves 
rolled  to  the  shoulder,  showing  the  big  muscles  of  his 
strong  arms,  he  gave  a  thoughtful  coaxing  tap  here,  a 
direct  ringing  blow  there,  calling  now  and  then  for 
materials  and  aid. 

This  would  have  been  Jessop's  opportunity  to  return 
the  scrutiny  to  which  himself  had  been  subjected, 
but  the  unfamiliar  task,  at  which  he  felt  bound  in  honor 


MISTRESS   JOY  109 

to  succeed,  quite  blotted  out  everything  else  from  his 
mind.  The  Indian  lad  was  uncommunicative,  but  his 
negro  neighbor  took  Jessop  under  her  motherly  wing. 
"Iss,  honey,"  she  said  to  him  kindly,  "oo  picky  'im  dess 
lacky  dat,"  and  she  went  off  into  oily  chuckles  over 
Jessop's  awkward  attempts  to  follow  her  instructions. 

Most  of  the  workers  sat  or  squatted  on  the  shed 
floor,  and  Jessop  followed  their  example  until  his  limbs 
became  so  cramped  that  he  went  over  to  the  gin  to  get 
a  cotton-basket  to  serve  for  a  seat,  when  Batchelor  once 
more  became  aware  of  him. 

"How  now,  Master  Jessop,  so  soon  discouraged?" 
he  asked  smilingly.  "Well,  't  is  a  toil  quite  unfitted 
for  your  hands,  which  have,  I  warrant  me,  skill  in 
other  lines  of  industry  to  which  they  might  be  better 
addressed." 

"You  mistake,"  rejoined  Jessop;  "I  vow  that  the 
hand-picking  of  cotton  is  the  most  fascinating  amuse 
ment  ever  devised  by  man,  and  the  company  you  have 
gathered  to  meet  me,  Master  Batchelor,  charms  me  ex 
tremely.  The  dusky  dame,  my  neighbor,  is  well  worth 
study.  I  do  protest  that  I  have  sat  next  a  duchess  at 
dinner  and  been  less  entertained." 

All  this  was  said  with  frank  gaiety,  and  Jessop 
turned  with  so  contented  an  air  to  go  back  to  his  work, 
that  David  was  moved  to  stop  him  and  inquire,  "Is 
there  aught  else  you  could  do  better?" 

"Faith,  my  friend,"  returned  the  other,  with  a  show 
of  jesting,  and  yet  with  serious  meaning  in  his  tones. 
"I  believe  there  is  naught  worth  doing  which  I  can  do 
well.  These  fingers  of  mine — you  mentioned  that  they 
might  have  skill  at  other  employment — well,  so  they 
have.  There  are  certain  fifty-two  pasteboards,  with 
spots  and  marks  and  royal  portraits  thereon,  which  they 
can  manipulate  to  admiration.  They  are  also  expert  at 
letting  money  slip  through  them,  have  been  heard  to 


no  MISTRESS  JOY 

play  with  some  skill  upon  the  harpsichord,  can  twang  a 
lute  indifferently,  and — so  my  last  fair  friend  assured 
me — can  wring  the  hearts  of  ladies.  These  things,  how 
ever,  do  not  bring  wage ;  rather  they  dissipate  one's  sub 
stance.  So  now,  let  me  back  to  my  labors,  and  teach 
them,  if  I  may,  an  honest  occupation." 

He  strode  gaily  over  to  his  place  in  the  shed,  and 
shortly  David  heard  him  joining  with  the  cheerful 
voices  of  the  negroes  when  they  began  to  sing,  as  is 
their  wont  over  tasks  light  or  heavy. 

At  noon  David  forgot  him,  and  was  conscience- 
stricken,  when  he  came  at  night  to  tally  over  the  books 
of  his  pickers,  to  find  his  new  hand  with  a  hectic  flush 
upon  his  face  and  a  tired  droop  of  his  thin  figure, 
which  bespoke  an  aching  weariness  of  every  limb  and 
member. 

Jessop  approached  cheerfully,  however,  and  David 
restrained  his  impulse  to  create  for  him  employment 
more  agreeable,  with  some  diversity  of  movement  and 
better  suited  to  his  present  physical  needs,  reflecting 
that  such  discipline  as  this  was  good  for  him,  and  must 
be  met  by  him  sometime  if  he  were  ever  to  grow  to  the 
stature  of  independent  manhood. 

Jessop  paused  to  chat  with  his  employer  a  moment 
before  starting  homeward.  "Did  you  know  Mistress 
Valentine's  mother,  Master  Batchelor?"  he  asked.  "Is 
there  the  answer  to  the  fair  riddle?  Did  our  young 
friend  get  there  her  fire  and  sparkle?  It  comes  not, 
sure,  from  Pastor  Valentine,  who,  scarce  awake,  goes 
through  this  life  with  eyes  turned  aside  from  all  its 
verities  and  fixed  upon  the  unseen — the  unattainable." 

"The  mother  died  before  our  good  pastor  left  the 
Carolinas.  I  never  saw  her,  but  I  have  known  Mis 
tress  Joyce  since  childhood,  and  I  warn  you,  Master 
Jessop,  she  is  like  to  prove  more  of  her  father's  metal 
than  you  suspect." 


MISTRESS  JOY  in 

"Say  you  so?"  laughed  the  young  scoffer.  "May 
hap  ;  but  I  will  swear  that  in  her  younger,  sturdier  soul 
there  lie  perdue  longings  after  the  flesh-pots  of  the 
world,  the  which  appeal  to  me  as  asking  temptations 
fit  for  their  development." 

David  smiled  a  bit  sadly.  "Bethink  you,  sir,"  he 
recommended,  "when  you  would  offer  these  temptations 
so  generously,  that  any  un-Methodistic  aspirations  of 
the  maid's  are  like  to  remain  perforce  ungratified." 

"And  even  so,"  returned  Jessop,  lightly,  "unsatisfied 
ambitions  do  feed  growth.  I  myself  have  some  few, 
and  I  am,  beneath  their  power,  burgeoning  into  an  as 
piring  agriculturist — I  may  e'en  end  a  good  Methody." 

Three  times,  on  his  way  home  that  evening,  Jessop 
was  forced  by  weakness  to  sit  down  for  rest.  Twice 
he  thought  he  must  have  fainted,  for  there  was  a  period 
of  which  he  knew  nothing  between  halting  and  the 
rousing  himself  to  find  that  he  was  lying  beside  the 
path,  the  bushes  and  trees  still  whirling  about  him  in 
most  unpleasant  fashion. 

At  first  he  jeered  his  weakness.  He,  a  man  and  a 
soldier,  unable  to  bear  work  which  seemed  light  and 
easy  to  women  and  children !  Later,  when  every  step 
was  an  agony,  that  quick  temper  of  his  flamed  up, 
and  he  ground  his  teeth  together,  declaring  furiously 
that,  though  he  died  for  it,  no  more  halts  should  be 
made.  The  result  of  this  Spartan  resolution  was  that 
he  reached  the  cabin  in  a  fainting  condition,  flung  open 
the  door,  grasped  blindly  at  the  lintel,  and  fell  uncon 
scious  across  the  threshold. 

Father  Tobias  sprang  up  from  his  place  on  the  settle, 
and  called  Joy  from  some  task  in  the  little  kitchen. 
"Oh,  why  did  he  overtax  himself  so?"  she  mourned,  as 
they  managed  between  them  to  lift  him  to  the  bed 
where  he  had  already  spent  so  many  weary  weeks. 

"I  warned  him  to  be  cautious,"  lamented  Father  To- 


ii2  MISTRESS  JOY 

bias.  "Now,  perchance  he  hath  quite  undone  the  good 
work  of  thy  nursing,  little  daughter." 

"I  think  not  of  my  part  in  't,"  returned  Joy,  with  a 
nurse's  tenderness  for  her  patient.  "I  would  do  as 
much  again  gladly  if  he  would  only  be  prudent  and 
grow  strong.  I  hold  him  much  to  blame  for  thus  for 
doing  all  he  hath  so  painfully  gained.  Methinks  a  sen 
sible  man  might  know  better." 

"Nay,  my  Joy,"  remonstrated  Father  Tobias,  a  bit 
humorously.  "When  you  speak  of  impatience  and  lack 
of  prudence,  methinks  't  is  what  I  've  heard  called 
'Satan  reproving  sin.' ' 

The  two,  experienced  in  tending  upon  ailments,  as 
was  necessary  in  those  times,  worked  over  Jessop  faith 
fully.  After  what  seemed  a  long  while,  he  groaned 
and  pushed  away  Father  Tobias's  hand,  muttering,  "My 
head,  my  head !" 

"He  will  do  now,  Joyce,  if  the  wet  bandage  be  kept 
renewed  upon  his  forehead,"  comforted  Father  Tobias. 
"Do  you  brew  him  a  pannikin  of  the  bitter  tea.  I 
must  do  your  milking  for  you,  and  see  that  the  kine  are 
housed.  Keep  Satan  indoors,  lest  he  make  havoc  when 
I  go  to  tend  upon  your  little  orphan  chicks." 

"Cover  them  well,  Father  Toby;  't  is  chill  weather, 
and  the  impatient  things  would  come  into  this  world 
when  't  was  full  bleak  for  them,"  called  Joy. 

"I  shall  not  forget,  daughter  Joy,"  he  reassured  her, 
taking  the  thick  homespun  coop-covers  she  handed  him. 

Just  as  she  had  months  before,  Joyce  brewed  her  bit 
ter  tea,  poured  it  into  the  selfsame  blue-and-white  wil 
low-pattern  bowl,  and  stepped  into  Jessop's  room  with 
it.  Even  as  he  had  done  on  that  occasion,  Jessop 
opened  upon  her  eyes  bright  with  fever  and  quite  un- 
recognizing.  Again  he  mistook  her  for  the  fair 
young  mother  who  had  died  when  he  was  a  boy  of 
seven,  whose  unforgotten  presence  always  haunted  his 


MISTRESS  JOY  113 

dreams  in  illness  or  distress.  He  lay  and  smiled  up 
into  Joy's  face,  now  tender  with  remorseful  concern 
for  him. 

She  set  her  bowl  upon  a  little  table,  and  knelt  beside 
his  bed.  "Will  you  take  your  tea  now?"  she  asked, 
and  added,  "It  will  be  good  for  you." 

"Why,  mother,  is  it  time  for  my  porridge?"  he  mur 
mured.  "I  'm  sorry  I  was  naughty."  He  took  the 
bitter  brew  very  patiently.  There  must  have  been 
childish  memories  of  times  when  he  had  been  dosed 
with  such  decoctions,  for  once  he  asked  drowsily,  "Will 
it  make  me  well  ?"  and  once,  "Will  it  make  me  good  ?" 

Joyce  administered  the  tea  deftly  by  spoonfuls, 
changed  the  wet  cloth,  and  thought  her  patient  quite 
rational  till  he  turned  on  his  side  and,  signing  sleepily, 
promised :  "I  '11  be  good  now,  mother,  and  if  you  '11 
kiss  me  I  will  sleep." 

The  interval  between  impulse  and  action  is  some 
times  too  short  for  analysis.  Joy's  heart  was  full  of 
a  tenderness  which  was  almost  purely  maternal.  With 
out  hesitating  for  thought,  she  bent  forward  and  laid 
her  cool,  fresh  lips  softly,  full  on  his.  Then  in  the 
instant  of  it  she  knew  she  should  not  have  done  this 
thing. 

She  drew  back  with  a  burning  blush  and  a  startled 
intake  of  the  breath.  Jessop's  eyes  were  looking  into 
hers  calmly  and  with  perfect  comprehension.  Swiftly 
she  rose,  gathered  up  her  bowls  and  basin,  and  fled  to 
the  kitchen. 

There  she  stood  on  the  hearth-stone,  her  hands 
knotted  together,  and  could  have  wept  with  shame  and 
a  sort  of  panicked  astonishment,  not  only  at  what  she 
had  done,  but  at  the  new  and  terrifying  emotions  born 
out  of  her  act. 

That  other  kiss,  the  one  Jessop  had  lightly,  almost 
jestingly  given  her,  had  been  crowded  quite  out  of 

8 


ii4  MISTRESS  JOY 

memory  by  matters  more  important.  Now,  with  an 
access  of  dismay,  she  remembered  it. 

She  had  been  angry  then,  had  thought  Jessop  for 
ward,  had  imagined  he  must  think  lightly  of  her ;  she 
had  been  able  not  only  to  forgive,  but  to  forget  it. 
Now  her  virgin  soul  was  shaken,  the  very  wells  of  her 
being  were  troubled,  clouded  by  this  strange  and  ter 
rible  thing  which  she  imagined  could  never  before  have 
chanced  to  any  woman.  She  sought  sorrowfully  a 
reason  for  her  own  conduct,  and  for  this  upheaval  in 
her  consciousness  which  had  followed  the  apparently 
simple  act. 

She.  fancied  that  she  had  given  the  kiss  for  his  mo 
ther's  sake,  just  as  she  might  have  given  it  to  an  ailing 
child.  Jessop's  light  love-making  during  his  early  con 
valescence  was  the  first  to  which  she  had  listened.  De 
spite  her  strict  upbringing,  she  had  of  course  had  her 
dreams  and  fancies  like  other  girls,  but  these  were  so 
very  vague  and  nebulous,  so  entirely  unconnected  with 
anything  in  the  world  of  reality  about  her,  that  their 
sudden  embodiment  was  both  shocking  and  alarming. 

Finally,  the  courage  which  was  the  dominant  note 
in  Joy's  nature  asserted  itself.  She  would  go  back 
and  speak  to  Master  Jessop.  She  would  face  the  issue, 
and  tell  him  exactly  how  she  came  to  do  this  dreadful 
thing  which  had  come  about  so  naturally  and  seemed 
in  the  doing  so  little  dreadful. 

She  knew  that  Jessop  liked  and  respected  her;  she 
felt  that  to  hold  that  liking  and  respect  she  must  re 
trace  this  one  false  step  and  blot  out  the  incident  once 
for  all.  To  go  was  like  treading  hot  plowshares,  but 
she  crushed  her  hands  over  her  tumultuously  beating 
heart  and  stole  back  to  the  doorway.  Jessop  lay  sleep 
ing  brokenly,  his  dark  curls  tossed  abroad  upon  the 
white  pillow,  his  lips  parted  and  smiling.  On  his 
cheeks,  flushed  a  little  with  fever,  lay  the  long  lashes, 


MISTRESS  JOY  115 

and  his  hurried,  uneven  breathing  stirred  the  covers 
above  his  breast. 

The  stress  which  Joy  had  put  upon  herself  relaxed. 
She  stood  silent,  and  gazed  at  him.  Suddenly  that 
emotion  which  had  so  terrified  her  laid  hold  once  more 
upon  her  heart.  She  remembered  Jessop's  eyes  as  they 
had  looked  into  hers  just  after  the  kiss.  They  had  held 
a  something  new,  an  expression  which  she  had  never 
seen  in  them  before.  What  was  it?  Would  he  ever 
so  look  at  her  again  ?  And  in  a  storm  of  contradictory 
feeling  it  appeared  to  her  that  she  should  die  if  he  ever 
did  so  look  at  her;  and  that  if  he  did  not,  she  should 
perish  for  lack  of  that  something  which  had  thrilled 
her  so. 

When  Father  Tobias  came  in  with  his  pails  from 
the  milking,  he  found  Joy  with  her  head  enveloped  in 
a  large  white  cloth,  which  was  a  regalia  assumed  by 
her  during  certain  domestic  ceremonials.  Over  in  one 
corner  of  the  kitchen  she  busied  herself  about  some 
matter  apparently  very  important.  When  he  asked  of 
the  patient,  she  replied :  "He  seems  quite  well,  and  is 
sleeping  so  quietly,  father,  that  I  thought  it  best  not 
to  disturb  him,  and  so  came  in  here." 

When  Jessop  crept  painfully  up  from  this  relapse, 
he  insisted  upon  going  once  more  to  "The  Meadows." 
Just  beyond  "Half-way  Cottage"  he  was  overtaken  by 
Colonel  Burr,  who  greeted  him,  dismounted,  and  in 
sisted  upon  his  riding.  "Well,  Major  Jessop,"  the 
colonel  observed,  "you  lacked  a  leech  for  this  last  rather 
Unnecessary  performance,  I  believe." 

"Perchance,"  retorted  Jessop,  gaily,  "that  is  the  rea 
son  I  am  here  to  tell  the  tale." 

"That  and  Mistress  Joy's  nursing,"  hinted  Burr. 
"I  myself  have  been  enduring  worse  things  than  a 
relapse  of  swamp  fever.  I  have  been  in  Philadelphia, 
as  you  may  know,  Major  Jessop,  where  the  politicians 


n6  MISTRESS   JOY 

meet  and  wrestle  and  tear  each  other  tooth  and  nail. 
I  do  protest  that  I  am  weary  of  it,  and  long  inexpressi 
bly  for  the  peace  of  mine  own  vine  and  fig-tree  here." 

"I  have  renounced  my  first  opinion  of  this  Missis 
sippi  country,"  said  Jessop.  "  'T  is  a  glorious  land. 
The  skies  here  appear  to  me  ever  smiling — 

"Even,"  interposed  Burr,  slyly,  "as  the  eyes  of  Mis 
tress  Joy." 

"Not  ever-smiling,"  objected  Jessop;  "the  eyes  of 
Mistress  Joyce  Valentine  are  subject  to  cloud  and 
storm,  and  even  to  a  sort  of  occultation,  when  a  sinful 
man  may  not  see  them  at  all." 

"And  there  's  their  great  attraction,"  added  Burr. 
"Know  you  the  eastern  part  of  this  country?  Have 
you  sojourned  in  New  York  or  Philadelphia?" 

"A  short  time,"  answered  Jessop.  "I  have  friends 
and  relatives  in  both  places." 

"There  's  a  vile  climate  for  you,"  grumbled  Burr. 
"You  're  ready,  in  doublet  and  hose,  to  warble  spring 
sonnets  under  Clorinda's  window,  and  a  damned  frost 
comes  and  freezes  your  shins  for  you,  while  Clorinda's 
nose  is  as  red  as  a  love-apple." 

Jessop  laughed.  "We  hear  rumors,  Colonel  Burr," 
he  remarked,  "that  you  are  going  very  high  in  the  coun 
cils  of  this  same  desolate  land  you  describe  so  aptly. 
Surely  you  have  no  mind  to  desert  it  because  of  a  little 
frost  and  cast  in  your  lot  with  us  here?" 

"I  have  greater  disrelish  for  politics  and  politicians 
— the  scrambling,  get-what-you-can  politics  of  a  new 
republic  like  ours — than  I  have  for  bad  weather  and 
frost-bitten  toes.  This  is  a  land  here  to  uphold  a  real 
aristocracy.  'T  is  suited  to  be  tilled  by  slave  labor. 
There  seems  no  chance  in  the  East  to  get  above  the 
shopkeeping  class.  Money  is  what  an  aristocracy 
must  have,  and  there  money  is  gotten  through  trade. 
This  is  a  country  to  nurture  barons." 


MISTRESS   JOY  117 

"King-makers  and  a  king?"  retorted  Jessop,  lightly. 
"With  a  queen  I  wot  of  to  share  the  throne,  a  man 
might  make  shift." 

"Which  minds  me,"  remarked  Burr,  "that  mine  er 
rand  with  our  good  friend  Batchelor  this  morning  con 
cerns  the  visit  to  Mississippi  of  a  certain  possible  sov 
ereign.  Louis  Philippe,  Due  d'Orleans,  is  shortly  to 
be  here  on  his  way  down  the  river  to  New  Orleans. 
Judge  Bruin  and  many  others  of  my  good  friends  here 
are  most  desirous  that  the  English-speaking  residents 
be  also  represented  in  those  attentions  which  the  Span 
ish  will  pay  him." 

It  struck  Jessop  as  a  trifle  peculiar  that  David  should 
be  consulted  in  this  matter,  but  he  made  no  comment, 
and  Burr  continued :  "Our  good  friend  Batchelor  hath 
a  fancy  for  investigating  the  silk  industry.  'T  is  said 
the  Salzburgers  over  in  seaboard  Georgia — that  Geor 
gia  which  is  even  now  trying  to  claim  most  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  province — are  doing  well  with  silk-raising. 
There  is  a  man  in  the  duke's  suite,  Vicomte  de  Courcy, 
who  is  a  mine  of  information  on  the  subject ;  they  say 
he  hath  the  Lyons  district  in  his  pocket.  I  promised 
Master  David  to  get  him  speech  with  this  man,  though 
belike  his  own  merits  had  done  as  much  for  him  with 
out  me." 

They  were  approaching  the  large  gate  which  ad 
mitted  into  the  pasture  surrounding  David  Batchelor's 
homestead.  "A  very  fine  location  Master  Batchelor 
hath  chosen  the  where  to  pitch  his  tent,"  remarked 
Burr,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  toward  the  grove  of 
magnolia  and  beech  immediately  surrounding  the 
dwelling.  Although  used  for  pasture,  it  had  a  well- 
cared-for  appearance,  and  the  close-cropped  slope 
dotted  with  noble  trees  gave  a  look  of  the  old  country. 

A  rough  fence  inclosed  perhaps  fifty  acres,  and  in  the 
near  distance  cows  were  grazing  on  the  yellowed  grass, 


n8  MISTRESS   JOY 

which  occasionally  showed  a  little  greenery  among  its 
dry  stubble. 

Giant  magnolias  reared  their  dark  green  branches, 
'  hung  with  streamers  of  the  strange  gray  moss,  toward 
a  clear  February  sky.  Mast  from  beech-trees,  which 
grow  with  peculiar  luxuriance  throughout  the  whole  of 
Mississippi,  covered  the  ground  thickly  where  a  few 
especially  fine  specimens  stood  among  the  more  stately 
magnolias.  A  fairly  good  roadway  led  to  the  dwell 
ing-house,  built  of  stout,  hewn  logs.  A  recently  added 
portico  or  gallery,  as  it  was  called  in  the  South  at  that 
day,  was  made  of  plank.  Here  sat  David,  at  his  elbow 
a  small  table  bearing  ink-horn,  quills,  and  a  wide- 
mouthed  bottle  of  sand.  Reason,  his  rosy  face  puck 
ered  with  anxiety,  was  perched  in  a  high  chair,  work 
ing  diligently  with  a  quill  pen  at  the  forming  of  his 
letters.  Children  began  their  education  early  in  those 
days,  and  David  was  already  teaching  his  four-year- 
old  with  great  system  and  regularity.  The  boy's  love 
for  him,  and  natural  infantile  distaste  for  study,  made 
the  hours  so  spent  a  mixture  of  the  keenest  joy  and  woe 
to  his  baby  soul. 

David  had  paused  to  mend  a  pen  as  they  came  up, 
and  Reasie  scrambled  down  at  sight  of  the  two  men, 
ducked  under  the  table,  and,  crying,  "Reasie  go  now, 
Dadie.  Reason  know  'nough  now,  Dadie!"  fled  toward 
the  gin-shed. 

Burr  broached  the  matter  of  the  ball.  Somewhat  to 
Jessop's  surprise,  David  acceded  promptly  and  quietly 
to  Burr's  suggestion  that  he  join  in  the  arrangements 
for  the  young  duke's  entertainment.  This  was,  to  Jes- 
sop  at  least,  a  new  phase  of  David  Batchelor's  charac 
ter,  and  in  his  eyes  it  added  a  considerable  grace  to 
the  man. 

"Major  Jessop  here  is  going,"  Burr  remarked,  when 
they  were  about  to  depart. 


MISTRESS   JOY  119 

"To  wait  upon  table  or  act  as  lackey.  The  pres 
ent  state  of  my  exchequer  and  wardrobe  would  fit  me 
well,  methinks,  for  either  post,"  remarked  Jessop,  with 
somewhat  labored  flippancy. 

"Why,  major,  if  your  luggage  hath  not  yet  arrived 
— you  and  I  might  surely  wear  the  same  coat,  though 
each  is  belike  in  his  own  esteem  the  greater  man — if 
your  luggage  hath  not  yet  arrived,  't  \vould  be  my 
pleasure  to  supply  your  deficiencies." 

"My  luggage,"  quoth  Jessop,  musingly;  "why, 
surely,  I  had  forgot.  Master  Batchelor  here  advanced 
me  certain  moneys  this  three  weeks  gone  in  anticipa 
tion  of  the  prodigies  I  should  perform,  not  in  the  tented 
field,  but  in  the  cotton-field.  And  I,  thrifty  soul  that 
I  have  now  become,  sent  for  a  half-forgotten  box  of 
my  old  clothing  left  with  a  friend.  'T  will  come  up 
by  the  next  keel-boat.  In  it  there  should  be  suits 
which  I  might  wear.  I  thank  you,  Colonel  Burr;  I 
shall  be  upon  your  generosity  for  no  more  than  the 
invitation,  and  that  I  '11  take  right  gladly." 

"Do  you  bring  a  lady  with  you?"  Burr  inquired 
abruptly. 

"That  I  know  not,"  Jessop  replied,  flushing  a  little 
and  smiling  boyishly.  "The  only  damsel  who  at  pres 
ent  fills  my  eye  hath,  methinks,  scant  use  for  balls  and 
the  like — is  't  not  so,  friend  David?" 

"Yes,  if  you  speak  of  Mistress  Valentine,  't  is  even 
so.  She  hath  chosen  the  calling  of  a  preacher,  and  the 
Methodist  Society  is  strict." 

Burr  gave  an  inexpressibly  comical  twist  to  his  fea 
tures  as  he  exclaimed:  "And  do  the  women  preach? 
Lord,  Lord !  then  would  I  be  converted  instanter  to 
save  trouble.  How  look  your  Methodist  friends  upon 
your  frivolities,  Master  David?" 

"I  hold  a  ball  no  harm,  else  should  I  not  attend  one; 
and,  not  being  a  member,  they  have  never,  spoken  to 


120  MISTRESS  JOY 

me  of  such  matters.  Yet,  for  Mistress  Guion,  who  you 
tell  me  goes  with  you,  Colonel  Burr,  and  for  Mistress 
Valentine  as  well,  't  were  better  they  dissevered  them 
selves  from  the  Society  before  engaging  in  that  which 
the  Society  condemns." 

"Will  they  discipline  her,  think  you?  That  's  the 
word,  is  't  not?  I  trust  they  may;  't  will  free  her, 
mayhap,  from  a  connection  she  should  never  have 
formed." 

"They  will,  you  may  be  sure,"  returned  David, 
quietly.  "Will  you,  who  have  brought  her  into  this 
position,  be  present  to  stand  by  her  then?  I  hope  so." 


CHAPTER   XII 


OUIS  PHILIPPE,  born  at  the  Palais 
Royal  in  Paris  in  1773,  was  at  this 
time  a  handsome  young  man  of  just 
twenty-five.  The  execution  of  his 
father  during  the  Reign  of  Terror 
gave  him  the  title  of  Due  d'Orleans. 
He  was  a  brilliant  and  dashing  sol 
dier,  who  had  seen  service  and  proved  his  valor  on 
more  than  one  bloody  field.  Fleeing  from  the  turbu 
lence  in  his  own  country,  he  passed  through  the  new 
republic  to  join  his  mother,  who  had  found  an  asylum 
in  Spain.  With  his  two  brothers  and  a  suite  of  at 
tendants  proper  to  his  princely  rank,  his  progress 
through  the  French-Spanish-American  colonies,  still 
loyal  to  Bourbon  traditions,  was  one  long  triumph. 

There  were  those  among  the  English-speaking  resi 
dents  of  Natchez  no  whit  behind  their  Spanish  neigh 
bors  in  the  homage  and  distinguished  courtesies  with 
which  they  designed  to  honor  the  royal  wanderer. 
General  Wilkinson,  commander-in-chief  of  the  United 
States  army,  wrote  Captain  Guion,  in  charge  of  the 
Natchez  district,  exhorting  him  to  show  hospitality 
and  respect  to  the  young  duke  and  his  suite.  In  the 
course  of  his  communication  he  used  these  prophetic 
words :  "When  you  receive  this  letter" — it  was  deliv 
ered  in  person  by  the  Marquis  de  Mountjoye,  an  im 
portant  member  of  the  duke's  party — "you  will  prob 
ably  see  the  future  King  of  France." 


122  MISTRESS  JOY 

For  months  preparations  had  been  making  for  the 
proper  reception  of  the  royal  party  at  Natchez.  The 
treaty  between  the  United  States  government  and  His 
Most  Catholic  Majesty  of  Spain  was  signed  in  '95. 
The  year  of  grace  '98  saw  a  curious  state  of  affairs  in 
the  province  ceded  by  this  treaty.  Spanish  law  was 
still  in  force,  since  law  there  must  be  for  the  protection 
of  life  and  property.  Spanish  troops  garrisoned  most 
of  the  forts,  yet  the  Spaniards  and  the  people  at  large 
were  aware  that  these  laws  were  obeyed  only,  as  one 
may  say,  by  courtesy,  and  that  the  troops  had  no  au 
thority.  Early  in  '98  the  government  at  Philadelphia 
having  found  that  a  display  of  military  power,  and  not 
an  exercise  of  diplomacy,  was  necessary  to  force  the 
Spaniard  to  a  recognition  of  the  pact,  United  States 
troops  began  coming  into  the  southwest  territories  to 
displace  the  Spanish. 

At  the  time  of  the  young  duke's  visit  the  troops  of 
both  governments  were  in  Natchez  and  in  Fort  No- 
gales.  The  Spaniards  were  preparing  to  evacuate,  the 
United  States  to  occupy  this  entire  territory.  It  was 
an  extremely  critical  situation,  big  with  possibilities  of 
the  most  tragic  sort.  Yet,  owing  to  the  courtesy  and 
the  honorable  behavior  of  both  commanders,  the  sol 
diery  of  the  two  nations  had  been  able  to  lie  encamped 
close  together  without  collision. 

When  the  royal  party  passed  Fort  Nogales  and  Wal 
nut  Hills,  where  Vicksburg  now  stands,  Governor 
Manuel  Gayoso  de  Lemos,  with  an  extensive  suite  of 
his  own,  joined  the  duke  and  accompanied  him  to 
Natchez. 

The  little  town  in  the  wilderness  was  filled  with 
brave  soldiery,  with  brilliantly  dressed,  distinguished 
visitors,  and  citizens  gay  in  holiday  attire.  The  town 
itself,  "Natchez  under  the  Hill,"  was  somewhat  primi 
tive,  but  near  and  upon  the  bluffs  were  many  luxurious 


MISTRESS  JOY  123 

homes,  and  there  was  more  wealth  and  culture  than 
would  have  been  deemed  possible  in  a  territory  so  re 
cently  settled.  The  inns  of  the  day  were  of  course 
quite  insufficient  for  such  superior  company,  but  the 
planters  in  the  surrounding  district  and  the  few  fami 
lies  of  wealth  who  had  already  established  residences 
within  the  town  itself,  were  more  than  willing  to  sup 
ply  the  deficiency. 

Louis  Philippe,  the  deposed  Spanish  governor,  the 
Spaniards  accompanying  him,  and  a  few  American 
gentlemen  who  had  been  added  to  the  train  in  its  pro 
gress  through  this  country,  were  received  with  great 
enthusiasm. 

The  soldiery,  American  and  Spanish,  had  been  for 
weeks  drilling,  burnishing  arms  and  accoutrements,  and 
putting  all  in  such  order  that  something  like  a  mili 
tary  display  or  review  might  greet  this  young  scion 
of  the  Bourbons,  who  was  himself  an  honorable  and 
intrepid  soldier. 

Two  large  keel-boats  brought  the  visitors  to  Natchez. 
That  containing  the  duke's  party  was  decorated  with 
the  Bourbon  lilies  and  the  colors  of  Spain.  These 
adornments,  which  had  been  arranged  at  Fort  Nogales, 
added  much  to  the  picturesqueness  of  the  modest  trans 
port. 

The  duke's  party  greeted  the  Spanish  flag,  which  was 
still  flying  over  Fort  Rosalie,  with  cheers  and  much 
demonstration  of  enthusiasm,  but  the  governor's  suite 
was  discreetly  silent.  Lined  up  on  either  side  of  the 
way  which  led  from  the  landing  to  the  main  street, 
facing  each  other,  but  not  for  battle,  were  the  Spanish 
and  the  United  States  troops.  The  bands  of  both 
joined  in  the  national  airs  of  France. 

The  carriages  of  the  aristocracy,  decorated  with 
scarfs,  bunches  of  early  spring  flowers,  and  silken 
.flags,  waited  at  one  end  of  the  main  street  to  take  the 


i24  MISTRESS   JOY 

distinguished  guests  on  a  tour  of  inspection.  Over 
the  vilest  roads  that  can  be  imagined,  they  crawled  to 
Fort  Rosalie  and  other  points  of  local  and  historical 
interest. 

One  feature  of  his  reception  particularly  pleased  and 
interested  the  duke.  A  band  of  friendly  Chickasaws 
had  been  induced  to  give,  in  the  open  square,  a  war- 
dance,  a  sun-dance,  and  other  of  their  peculiar  cere 
monies. 

Seats  were  arranged  for  the  visitors  under  an  awn 
ing.  Many  of  the  beautiful  and  cultured  women  of 
the  section,  both  Spanish  and  American,  were  in  at 
tendance.  The  Indians  were  in  full  regalia;  war-bon 
nets  of  quivering  quills  and  brilliantly  dyed  feathers 
swayed  to  their  rhythmic  movements  as  they  danced. 

Young  beauties,  clad  in  the  latest  modes  from  Paris, 
or  as  near  it  as  the  time  and  distance  would  permit, 
gently  nurtured,  high-bred,  looked  on  at  the  savage 
spectacle.  There  were  times  and  places  when  the  sight 
of  one  of  these  painted  braves  would  have  meant  to 
both  men  and  women  a  terror  worse  than  death.  Now 
they  laughed  and  jested  and  admired  the  muscular  en 
durance  of  the  sinewy  dancers,  who,  with  impassive 
features,  sprang  and  leaped  and  writhed  to  the  wailing 
and  thudding  of  their  barbaric  music. 

Slaves  carrying  huge  trays  of  fruit  and  silver  salvers 
of  rare  wines  and  fine  liqueurs  passed  among  the  guests. 
The  young  beauties  were  not  less  fair,  less  witty,  nor 
less  well  clad  than  those  of  Madrid  or  Versailles.  And 
there  was  a  subtle  exhilaration  like  new  wine  in  the 
very  air  of  this  crude  country,  a  piquant  contrast  be 
tween  these  elegant  and  gracious  people  and  the  sav 
age  dancers — also  citizens  of  the  land — which  spurred 
the  fancy  and  captivated  the  senses. 

The  Indian  ceremonials  over,  the  newcomers  were 
driven  to  the  various  residences  of  those  who  were 


MISTRESS   JOY  125 

to  entertain  them,  and  the  little  town  settled  to  the 
breathless  quiet  of  mighty  preparation  for  the  night's 
ball,  which  was  to  be  the  grand  affair  of  the  fes 
tivities. 

During  these  goings  on,  our  friends  of  the  Methodist 
Society  kept  within  doors,  as  though  a  plague  were 
abroad  in  the  land.  Indeed,  they  felt  that  such  was  the 
case.  In  some  households  the  children  were  strictly 
forbidden  to  look  from  window  or  door  if  a  portion  of 
the  pageant  passed  near  the  cabin. 

How  lax,  then,  was  Master  Tobias,  how  weak  and 
more  than  lax  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine!  For  this 
reprehensible  young  woman,  assisted — in  the  capacity, 
one  may  say,  of  mirror — at  the  very  last  and  finishing 
touches  given  to  Master  Jessop's  costuming  for  the 
great  event.  Yea,  she  not  only  assisted  at  them,  but 
was  moved  thereby  to  envy  and  admiration. 

At  the  bottom  of  Jessop's  box  of  clothing,  which 
arrived  the  week  before,  lay  a  forgotten  suit  of  white 
satin.  He  had  considered  it  quite  too  fine  for  wear 
since  he  had  been  in  the  Americas.  It  had  first  seen 
the  light  in  a  king's  palace,  and  Jessop  smiled  whim 
sically  as  he  lifted  and  looked  at  it. 

There  was  nothing  else  in  the  box — absolutely  noth 
ing — suitable  for  wear  at  a  ball,  and  this  costume  was, 
to  his  thinking,  as  unsuitably  fine  as  his  ragged  work 
ing-dress  was  unsuitably  coarse. 

"Yet,"  he  said,  as  he  lifted  the  long  silken  hose  and 
the  white  morocco  shoes,  from  which  the  diamond 
buckles  had  been  removed  in  time  of  need,  "beggars 
cannot  be  choosers.  I  cannot  greet  the  Due  d'Orleans 
in  a  scarlet  riding-coat  nor  in  a  robe  de  chambre.  I 
am  e'en  reduced  to  outshining  everybody,  because  I 
have  naught  less  glorious." 

He  sought  Mistress  Joyce,  in  her  freshly  scrubbed 
kitchen,  and  begged  of  her  a  pannikin  of  hot  water, 


126  MISTRESS  JOY 

that  he  might  shave  himself.  He  was  humming  "The 
Brown  Girl,"  and  he  dwelt  rather  conspicuously  on  the 
lines : 

"  They  sat  her  up  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
She  was  the  flower  of  all — she  was  the  flower  of  all." 

His  feet  unconsciously  accommodated  themselves  to 
the  measure  as  he  went,  with  a  light,  balancing  step, 
about  his  preparations. 

'  'She  was  the  flower  of  all — she  was  the  flower  of 
all/  That  's  what  I  '11  be,  Mistress  Joyce,"  he  added, 
laughing.  The  youthful  gaiety,  the  joy  of  life,  ran 
strong  in  Jessop's  veins  once  more. 

When  he  was  shaved,  dressed,  and  combed  there 
came  the  problem  of  his  hair.  The  abundant  dark 
curls  would  have  been  a  scandal,  almost  an  insult,  dis 
played  at  an  evening  company  of  that  date,  and  this 
was  a  ball  at  which  royalty  appeared. 

He  looked  in  dismay  at  his  powder-box,  the  silver 
clasps  and  white  satin  ribbon  for  winding  the  club  and 
keeping  the  queue  in  place.  Finally,  he  went  out  to 
where  Father  Tobias  was  cleaning  a  rifle,  holding  a 
tallow  candle  in  its  old  silver  candlestick  first  to  one 
side  and  then  to  the  other  to  observe  the  progress  of 
his  work. 

"It  puts  me  to  the  blush  to  ask  it  of  you,"  Jessop  hesi 
tated,  "and  yet  in  the  nature  of  things,  Master  Valen 
tine,  I  cannot  do  my  own  hair."  Father  Tobias  looked 
up  bewildered.  "The  one  barber  in  yonder  town," 
went  on  Jessop,  "hath  by  this  time,  I  doubt  not,  been 
mobbed  and  dismembered.  And  in  any  case,  he  is  six 
miles  away,  over  the  worst  road,  I  do  think  me,  that 
ever  lay  outside  man's  door. 

"Certainly,"  assented  Father  Tobias,  with  kindly 
alacrity,  "you  want  me  to  comb  your  hair." 

"Why,  no,"  deprecated  Jessop,  "'t  is  not  quite  so 


MISTRESS  JOY  127 

bad  as  that.  I  have  myself  combed  it  quite  thoroughly. 
Now,  if  you  will  but  step  here  to  my  room  one  moment, 
tie  a  ribbon  as  I  '11  show  you,  and  dust  a  bit  of  powder 
on,  't  will  answer." 

But,  however  easy  in  the  telling,  Father  Tobias 
found  it  no  simple  task.  He  tied  his  amiable,  blunder 
ing  fingers  into  the  knots  of  ribbon,  and  untangled 
them  with  great  difficulty.  The  powder  he  was  afraid 
to  touch,  dreading  that  by  a  too  copious  shower  of  it 
he  would  spoil  all. 

After  fumbling  conscientiously  for  fifteen  minutes, 
he  owned  himself  quite  beaten.  "I  begin  to  believe," 
he  hesitated  gently,  rubbing  his  temple  with  a  dubious 
forefinger  and  eying  the  strange  wreck  he  had  made 
of  Jessop's  head,  "that  I  was  not  born  for  a  hair 
dresser." 

"But  for  greater  and  better  things,"  supplied  Jessop, 
whose  bubbling  gaiety  and  satisfaction  nothing  could 
damp. 

"Why,  yes,  perchance;  for  a  preacher  of  the  Word, 
I  and  my  friends  who  love  me  think.  And  as  these 
trappings  of  the  world  are  forbidden  us  by  the  dis 
cipline  of  our  Society,  I  am  limited  to  the  plentiful 
powder  of  age  upon  mine  own  locks,  and  have  no  prac 
tised  hand  wherewith  to  powder  the  locks  of  another. 
Come  to  the  room  without,  Master  Jessop,  and  let  us 
call  daughter  Joy  to  help  me.  Betwixt  us,  we  can 
surely  accomplish  the  work." 

The  two  men  gathered  up  awkwardly  the  necessary 
paraphernalia  and  went  into  the  living-room. 

Something  very  like  dismay  swept  over  Joyce  as  she 
got  her  first  sight  of  Jessop's  shining  figure.  She  cov 
ered  her  feeling  by  an  instant  show  of  concern  for  his 
coat.  "You  should  not  dress  his  hair  above  that  silken 
collar,"  she  objected  sharply.  "  'T  will  soil  it,  may 
hap.  Doth  not  the  hair-dresser  always  pin  a  towel 


128  MISTRESS  JOY 

about  your  shoulders,  Master  Jessop,  when  he  dresses 
your  hair?" 

Not  twice  in  his  life  had  Jessop  been  under  the  hands 
of  a  public  barber.  His  own  valets,  first  and  second, 
were  both  trained  hair-dressers.  He  remembered 
humorously  that  there  had  been  some  sort  of  silken 
affair  provided  to  spread  above  the  robe  de  chambrc 
while  his  dark  locks  were  curled  or  powdered  or 
tied  up. 

Now  he  said  seriously:  "Why,  yes,  I  think  a  towel 
is  the  proper  thing.  I  thank  you,  Mistress  Joyce,  for 
the  suggestion.  'T  is  so  long  since  I  have  been  dressed 
— I  have  been  merely  clothed  of  late — that  I  find  I  have 
forgotten  how  dressing  is  done." 

Joyce  brought  a  large,  snowy,  coarse  cloth  of  her  own 
weaving.  Jessop  was  not  a  tall  man, — he  was  scarce 
above  Joy's  own  height, — yet  the  pinning  of  this  cloth 
about  his  neck  was  attended  with  some  difficulty.  Her 
face,  directly  opposite  and  slightly  lower  than  his  own, 
was  raised  to  his,  while  her  fingers,  made  suddenly 
awkward,  sought  vainly  to  knot  the  cloth  in  place. 
Her  eyes,  down-dropped,  refused  persistently  to  meet 
his  own,  which  permitted  Jessop  to  note  the  unusual 
length  and  beauty  of  her  lashes. 

He  was  half  minded  to  ask  something  which  should 
make  her  lift  these  heavy  lashes  and  favor  him  with 
one  of  those  swift,  half-revealing  glances  for  which  he 
had  come  of  late  to  watch.  But  he  observed  the  tremu- 
lousness  of  her  lips  and  the  trouble  in  her  face,  and, 
with  a  consideration  which  was  a  new  thing  in  Jessop, 
he  not  only  forbore  speech,  but  turned  aside  his  gaze 
and  addressed  himself  to  Father  Tobias. 

"She  's  bibbing  me,  Master  Valentine,  you  observe. 
Faith,  it  minds  me  of  nursery  days.  A  touch  more  of 
this  and  I  shall  say,  'Mama,  I  '11  be  good.' ' 

"I  pray  you,  sit  down,"  cut  in  Joy's  voice  querulously. 


MISTRESS  JOY  129 

"I  cannot  reach  you  here,  as  you  might  well  know  with 
a  little  forethought."  And  Jessop  turned  in  surprise, 
to  see  that  she  had  blushed  burningly.  He  could  have 
sworn,  too,  that  there  were  tears  beneath  those  myste 
rious  lashes. 

Something  in  her  face,  or  perhaps  something  in  his 
own  consciousness, — that  subconsciousness  of  ours 
which  is  said  to  store  away  and  retain  all  our  acts,  sleep 
ing  or  waking,  knowing  or  unknowing, — brought  to  his 
mind  the  memory  of  that  kiss  which  Joyce  had  given 
him,  and  which  had  remained  an  unmentioned,  unac 
knowledged  secret  between  them.  He  felt  a  great  rush 
of  tenderness  toward  the  brave  young  creature  who 
faced  all  the  issues  of  her  life  with  such  dauntless  cour 
age,  and  who  was  yet  a  very  woman. 

As  he  stood  there,  exquisite  in  his  silk  attire,  his 
powder  and  lace,  Jessop  felt  an  unaccustomed  film  in 
his  eyes  at  which  he  wondered  half  cynically.  When 
he  was  seated  as  she  had  commanded,  Joy  brought  him 
her  own  quaint  little  silver  mirror,  a  keepsake  which 
had  come  to  her  with  some  other  trinkets  from  the 
young  mother  whom  she  had  never  seen. 

"Now,  Master  Jessop,  you  may  look  in  that  and 
tell  me  what  to  do,  for  I  have  small  skill  in  dressing 
the  heads  of  gentlemen." 

"Whatever  you  may  do  to  their  hearts,  Mistress 
Joy,"  supplied  Jessop,  gaily — "whatever  you  may  do 
to  their  hearts.  Now,  may  I  trouble  you?  Will  you 
gather  it  all  in  one  hand,  somewhat  as  an  Indian  brave 
about  to  scalp  me — though,  as  I  am  already  your  vic 
tim,  I  hope  you  will  spare  me  that." 

Her  slender,  toil-roughened  fingers  slipped  through 
the  fine  mesh  of  his  curls.  Dark  strands  twisted  silkily 
about  them.  The  touch  sent  a  thrill  to  Joy's  heart, 
unwelcome  because  it  reminded  her  of  that  memorable 
day  when  she  had  forgotten  herself,  and,  as  it  seemed 
9 


130  MISTRESS   JOY 

to  her  now,  had  kissed  the  owner  of  those  curls  boldly, 
wantonly,  sinfully. 

"Now,  Mistress  Joy,  divide  it  in  three  parts,  and 
lay  them  loosely  over  one  another  in  a  braid — so. 
Draw  them  out  about  the  ears,  will  you?  That 's  called 
the  pigeon  wings — I  'm  a  dove  about  to  take  flight, 
you  see.  Next,  plait  tighter  with  your  three  strands. 
Draw  them  as  snugly  as  you  can  now;  that  's  the 
club,  and  we  must  have  it  a  good,  stout  one,  or, 
what  with  dancing  and  bowing  and  mincing,  I  shall 
have  my  locks  flying  about  in  the  most  ungenteel 
fashion." 

Joyce  followed  each  direction  with  intelligent  docil 
ity.  Her  lips  were  pressed  tight  together,  and  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  was  ashamed  of  the  feel 
ing,  yet  it  broke  the  heart  in  her  bosom  to  look  down 
upon  her  own  coarse  garb  against  Jessop's  sumptuous 
satin.  The  thought  that  she  stood  playing  valet,  mak 
ing  him  fine  that  he  might  go  out  to  a  world  of  pleasure 
which  she  could  not  share — which  she  could  never  share 
— was  exceeding  bitter. 

She  had  carefully  kept  Jessop's  head  between  her  and 
the  mirror.  Now,  with  a  sudden  shifting  of  it,  he 
caught  a  full  view  of  the  woeful  countenance. 

He  sprang  up  in  alarm,  quite  undoing  all  Joy's  pa 
tient  work.  "Mistress  Joyce!"  he  cried,  "what  is  it? 
What  have  I  done?  Did  I  speak  harshly  to  you? 
I  'm  such  a  thoughtless  brute,"  and,  unmindful  of 
Father  Tobias,  he  caught  her  hands  and  attempted  to 
gaze  into  her  eyes. 

"Why,  't  is  naught,"  returned  Joy,  pulling  away  her 
hands.  "Now,  look  you ;  you  've  undone  all  my  work, 
and  I  was  near  finishing.  WThy  should  you  ask  what 
ails  me?" 

Silenced,  but  not  satisfied,  Jessop  sat  meekly  down. 
He  was  resolved,  however,  not  to  offend  again,  and  to 


A    1.1  I  I  1.1.     l«i    Till-:    l.KKT,     PRAY,     MISTRESS    JOY. 


MISTRESS   JOY  131 

this  end  with  every  suggestion  he  made  he  kept  a  wary 
eye  upon  Joy's  face  in  the  mirror. 

That  young  woman,  however,  was  equally  resolute 
not  to  have  her  tell-tale  features  studied. 

''A  little  to  the  left,  pray,  Mistress  Joy,"  Jessop  would 
counsel,  moving  his  mirror  slightly  to  the  right,  and 
be  rewarded  with  a  flying  glimpse  of  the  tip  of  Joy's 
ear  and  the  twist  of  her  shining  hair  as  she  dodged 
skilfully  behind  her  own  handiwork. 

At  last  the  queue  was  braided,  the  pigeon  wings 
worked  up,  the  club  tightly  wrapped  with  its  white- 
satin  ribbon,  the  silver  clasps — something  quite  new  to 
this  provincial  community — fastened  in  place,  and  Joy 
was  ready  to  dust  the  powder  on.  To  do  this  she 
would  have  to  face  him,  and  Jessop,  weary  of  the  game 
of  bo-peep,  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  would  now 
be  able  to  study  her  face  and  know  if  he  had  really 
wounded  her,  either  by  his  attitude  or  speech. 

But  no  woman  of  the  grand  monde  could  have  met 
the  situation  with  more  tact  than  this  young  backwoods 
woman,  whose  aspiration  it  was  to  become  a  Metho 
dist  preacher.  "There,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  satisfac 
tion,  "what  with  your  instruction  and  my  disposition 
to  observe  worldly  frivolities  of  this  sort,  I  should  say 
we  have  done  famously,  Master  Jessop.  Now,  close 
your  eyes  and  we  '11  get  the  powder  on.  Oh,  close 
them  tight ;  't  is  no  use  blinking  like  that — they  would 
be  dusted  full." 

Jessop  obeyed,  half  sulkily.  He  was  chagrined  at 
being  met  and  so  completely  worsted  on  his  own 
ground. 

This  minor  triumph  somewhat  lightened  Joy's  drag 
ging  heart,  but  not  for  long.  As  she  flecked  the  pow 
der  from  an  exposed  portion  of  his  sleeve  and  unpinned 
the  cloth,  the  bleak  pathos  of  her  position  came  home 
to  her. 


132  MISTRESS   JOY 

Instinctively  she  turned  to  Father  Tobias.  "Here, 
Father  Toby,"  she  said,  "when  they  turn  me  out  of  the 
Society  and  will  have  none  of  me  for  a  preacher,  shall 
I  not  make  my  living  bravely  as  a  hair-dresser?" 

Jessop  stood  up  full  dressed.  He  had  put  on,  with 
this  attire,  something  else.  Unconsciously  he  had  as 
sumed  the  manner  of  his  former  world,  and,  to  some 
extent,  there  came  with  it  that  world's  point  of  view 
and  spiritual  outlook.  As  Father  Tobias  and  Joy 
turned  to  inspect  him,  he  raised  his  beruffled  hand,  laid 
it  against  his  heart,  and,  laughing,  gave  them  the  grand 
salute. 

Jessop  was  a  graceful  fellow.  Born  to  wealth  and 
power,  their  trappings  sat  well  upon  him.  He  might 
have  dazzled  a  more  experienced  girl.  Standing  there 
in  his  shimmering  white  satin  that  took  the  light  like 
pearl,  with  the  powdered  curls  above  his  forehead 
bringing  out  all  the  fervid  beauty  of  his  dark  eyes,  to 
Joy  he  looked  like  a  being  from  another  sphere.  She 
felt  poignantly  that  he  was  at  least  of  a  world  which 
was  not  hers. 

Father  Tobias  took  the  antique  candlestick  and,  rais 
ing  it  high,  walked  about  Jessop,  viewing  him  from  all 
sides.  "Why,  now,"  he  said  approvingly,  "  't  is  well 
done,  my  Joy.  Back  in  my  time,  when  I  was  one  of 
the  world's  people,  we  all  wore  wigs." 

"As  some  do  now,"  supplemented  Jessop.  "But  I, 
who  have  no  wig  and  no  money  wherewith  to  purchase 
a  wig,  must  content  myself  with  meeting  the  fashion 
in  powdered  hair." 

Joy  looked  at  the  two  men,  one  young,  handsome, 
gay  in  his  magnificent  evening  dress,  the  other  a  little 
bent,  and  in  the  old  black  coat  whose  narrow  skirts 
were  almost  gown-like,  his  thin,  silvery  hair  falling 
lightly  on  his  shoulders  and  making  a  sort  of  aureole 
to  frame  the  gentle,  unworldly  old  face. 


MISTRESS  JOY  133 

They  imaged  to  her,  although  she  scarcely  realized  it 
at  that  moment,  the  two  possibilities  in  her  nature. 
Father  Tobias  stood  for  her  childhood  and  youth,  her 
old  ideals  and  hopes.  He  represented  to  her  the  Joyce 
Valentine  whose  highest  aspiration  it  was  to  become  a 
preacher  of  the  Word. 

Jessop  typified  another  woman,  whose  first  stirrings 
within  her  she  had  regarded  as  deadly  sin.  She  had 
been  learning  of  late  that  there  was  a  potential  Joyce 
Valentine  who  loved,  beyond  all  else,  beauty  and  luxury 
and  gaiety  and  life  and  form  and  color — a  woman  of 
restless  and  passionate  desires,  one  who  would  bring  to 
bear  upon  what  Joyce  now  considered  sinful  and  selfish 
pleasures  the  same  courage  and  address  that  the  Puri 
tan  Joyce  Valentine  had  ever  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
doing  of  her  duty. 

Father  Tobias  reminded  them  that  it  was  time  Mas 
ter  Batchelor  would  be  passing  with  the  coach.  Jessop 
brought  out  the  three-cornered  white  hat  which,  robbed 
as  it  was  of  its  diamond  star,  was  much  finer  than  he 
desired  it  to  be,  and,  the  coach  having  driven  up,  the 
old  man  cautioned  Jessop  lest  he  soil  his  white  shoes  or 
injure  his  beautiful  costume.  His  placid  old  face  ex 
pressed  the  most  innocent  and  unmeasured  delight  in 
Jessop's  magnificence.  He  lighted  him  quite  to  the 
coach  door,  shading  the  candle  with  his  withered 
hands,  lest  some  untoward  accident  happen  to  the 
snowy  splendor  he  so  much  admired. 


CHAPTER   XIII 


ATHER  TOBIAS  appreciated  to  the 
full  that  this  glimpse  of  a  life  she 
could  not  hope  to  enter  must  be  surely 
trying  to  a  young  and  ardent  creature 
like  his  daughter.  "My  Joy,"  he 
said,  pausing  beside  her  chair  on  his 
way  to  the  little  attic  chamber,  "you  'd 
never  think  it,  dearest,  but  your  old  gray-headed  father 
has  been  through  it  all." 

"Through  what?"  asked  Joyce,  in  a  muffled  voice, 
her  lips  against  the  palm  of  the  hand  she  had  drawn 
about  her  neck. 

"Oh,  the  longing  and  the  trouble  and  the  heavy 
cross,  dear  heart,  when  the  things  of  this  world  look 
so  beautiful  and  the  Voice  is  not  always  strong  enough 
to  be  heard." 

"The  Voice?"  repeated  Joy. 
ever  did  hear  it,  Father  Toby, 
called ;  what  think  you  ?     Did  it  seem  to  you  a  true 
call?" 

"  'Many  shall  be  called  and  few  chosen,'  "  quoted 
Father  Tobias,  softly.  "Yea,  I  did  think,  my  daugh 
ter,  that  thou  wert  one  of  God's  own.  Shall  we  take 
it  to  the  Lord  in  prayer  ?" 

The  two  knelt  down  beside  that  humble  hearth-stone, 
which  was  surely  in  purity  and  love  an  acceptable  altar, 
and  Father  Tobias  prayed,  not  that  Joy  should  be  led 
in  one  way  or  the  other,  but  that  she  should  be  led 

134 


MISTRESS  JOY  135 

aright.  His  gentle,  humble  petition  acknowledged  the 
fallibility  of  human  judgment,  the  weakness  of  the 
human  heart,  and  left  room  for  other  beliefs  than  his 
own  to  be  proven  best. 

This  touch  of  warm  human  sympathy  somewhat 
comforted  Joy's  sore  heart.  But  when  he  was  gone, 
and  she  sat  alone  waiting  for  Jessop,  her  spirit  sank 
very  low  indeed.  Since  Manteo's  death,  Joyce  had 
been  sleeping  above  stairs,  but  this  night  she  had  for  a 
while  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  necessary  some  one 
should  await  Jessop's  coming,  to  see  the  house  safely 
closed  after  him.  Then  misery  rent  away  the  dis 
guise,  and  she  acknowledged  that  she  was  sitting  there 
waiting  for  another  glimpse  of  him,  hungry  to  hear 
him  talk  of  that  gay  world  with  which  he  had  mingled, 
eager  to  know  if  he  would,  after  it,  still  care  to  look 
into  her  eyes  as  he  had  done. 

For  a  long  time  she  fought  against  the  desire  to  rise 
and  take  from  the  mantel  shelf,  where  she  had  placed 
it,  the  quaint  little  mirror  which  Jessop  had  held. 
Finally,  she  reached  it  down,  and  looked  at  herself 
sadly  and  long.  She  saw  in  it  a  face  of  irregular 
beauty,  full  of  charm — a  charm  she  did  not  recognize. 
She  sighed  impatiently,  and  wondered  how  white  satin 
would  become  her,  and  then  she  fell  to  dreaming.  She 
was  a  child  again,  listening  to  the  sweet,  droning  voice 
of  an  old  woman  telling  her  fairy  tales. 

Back  in  the  early  days,  when  Father  Tobias  was 
struggling  with  the  problem  of  what  might  be  best 
for  an  eager,  restless  girl  of  twelve,  there  was  an  old 
Irish  lady,  a  woman  of  birth  and  title,  who  had  fol 
lowed  her  two  sons  into  the  wilderness,  and  who  loved 
to  have  Joyce  about  her  chair  or  the  companion  of  her 
solitary  dinner  when  these  same  sons  were  absent. 
Pastor  Valentine  was  much  criticized  for  permitting 
the  intimacy,  since  Lady  Connor  was  a  Catholic.  But, 


136  MISTRESS   JOY 

gentle  as  was  Father  Tobias,  he  always  managed  his 
own  affairs  in  his  own  way,  and  during  the  winter 
which  the  Connors  spent  in  Mississippi,  Joy  was  in 
structed  in  all  the  fairy  lore  which  had  nurtured  the 
old  Irishwoman's  own  youth. 

Now,  as  she  sat,  with  the  little  mirror  in  her  lap, 
musing  of  Jessop,  these  fairy  tales  echoed  through  her 
mind  and  mingled  themselves  with  her  thoughts  of 
him.  She  brooded  upon  the  "Knight  in  Snow-white 
Armor,  the  very  Flower  of  Men."  She  thought  that 
just  as  Jessop  looked  in  his  satin  and  laces,  so  must 
have  looked  the  fairy  prince  who  waked  the  Sleeping 
Beauty.  Before  her  the  picture  floated  dreamily  of  the 
prince  kneeling  beside  the  sleeping  princess  as  he  bent 
to  kiss  her.  That  kiss  had  wakened  not  only  the  prin 
cess,  but  her  whole  castle  to  life.  Then  she  remem 
bered  with  a  burning  blush  the  time  when,  kneeling, 
she  had  given,  not  received,  such  a  kiss,  and  that  it 
had  wakened  many  things  in  her  woman's  soul  to 
which  she  had  been  a  stranger.  Burying  her  face  in 
her  hands,  she  for  the  first  time  seriously  entertained 
the  thought  that  not  only  was  she  unfit  to  preach  the 
Word,  but  that  the  strongest  part  of  her  belonged  to 
the  world. 

And  here,  in  spite  of  all  her  honest  efforts,  rebellious 
thoughts  would  follow  Jessop.  She  saw  him  moving, 
a  lustrous  figure  in  a  dream,  through  gorgeous  rooms, 
courtly,  elegant,  far  off,  as  he  had  seemed  to  her  to 
night. 

Back  of  all  lay  the  consciousness  that  there  was 
shame  in  thus  giving  rein  to  her  idle  and  sinful  fancy. 
Her  father's  face,  mild  and  protecting  as  it  had  beamed 
down  on  her  after  his  prayer,  half  formed,  wavered, 
and  then  faded  to  give  place  to  another. 

She  wondered  dully  why  David  Batchelor  should 
intrude  upon  her  musings.  She  decided  finally  that  it 


MISTRESS   JOY  137 

must  be  because  he  was  not  a  member  of  the  Society, 
but  one  who  voluntarily  and  without  constraint  of  any 
sort  elected  to  tread  the  path  which  she  was  beginning 
to  find  too  bleak  and  difficult  for  her  feet. 

Well,  why  should  he  not?  If  she  were  free,  even 
as  he  was,  to  take  or  leave  as  she  list,  she  felt  that  the 
leaving  would  be  less  hard,  the  taking  less  repugnant. 
David  had  gone  to  the  ball.  If  she  might  only  go  to 
such  a  place  once,  if  she  might  see  the  worldly  life  as 
it  was,  she  would  then  be  willing  to  give  it  up  for  all 
time.  But  her  own  reason  showed  her  that  this  was 
idle  and  sophistical.  As  she  phrased  it  to  herself,  it 
was  "a  lure  of  the  evil  one  to  lead  her  soul  astray." 

Wearied  with  doubts  and  questionings  to  which  she 
found  no  answer,  she  at  last  fell  asleep  on  the  hard  old 
settle,  her  head  pillowed  on  her  arm,  to  doze  and  dream 
uneasily  till  Jessop's  hand  upon  the  latch  wakened  her. 

He  was  flushed,  smiling,  alert.  She  had  never  seen 
him  so  gay,  so  poised,  so  completely  a  man  of  the 
world. 

And  suddenly  the  room  was  smaller,  more  homely, 
meaner,  humbler  in  its  appointments,  as  though  he  had 
contracted  it  by  its  greatness,  and  with  his  brilliance 
dimmed  the  light  of  its  one  pitiful  candle. 

"You  should  not  have  waited  up  for  me,  Mistress 
Valentine.  Your  father  gave  me  the  secret  of  the 
latch,  so  that  I  might  enter,  disturbing  none." 

She  had  attempted  to  cajole  her  own  judgment. 
But  now,  when  inquired  of  by  Jessop,  she  replied  with 
characteristic  candor:  "Nay,  Master  Jessop,  I  am  so 
worldly  minded  that  I  could  not  rest  till  you  had  told 
me  of  the  ball,  and  who  was  there,  and  how  the  young 
duke  appeared.  I  never  in  my  life  saw  aught  like  it. 
I  fear  I  think  too  much  upon  such  things.  But  per 
chance  if  't  were  once  freely  told  me  't  would  quiet 
what  I  sometimes  think  is  a  wicked  craving." 


138  MISTRESS  JOY 

All  this  was  said  so  naively,  yet  so  sweetly,  that 
Jessop  was  charmed.  He  looked  with  a  swift  access  of 
admiration  at  the  tall,  slight  figure  and  the  serious,  pale 
face.  If  this  girl,  he  thought,  could  be  transformed 
into  one  of  the  fine  ladies  with  whom  he  had  been 
dancing,  half  her  charm  would  be  lost.  Her  quaint 
simplicity  and  directness  moved  him  strongly.  He  re 
membered,  with  something  like  surprise,  that  he  had 
once  thought  her  unfit  for  an  exalted  station  in  life. 
So  fair,  so  pure,  so  utterly  honest  and  courageous  a 
young  creature!  Why,  she  was  a  very  queen  among 
women,  and  fit  for  any  position,  even  a  royal  one.  He 
glowed  with  admiration  for  her  as  they  seated  them 
selves  and  he  began  to  speak. 

"In  the  first  place,  Mistress  Joy,  to  begin  with  your 
own  friends,  I  went,  as  you  know,  with  Master  David 
Batchelor.  He  was  attired — or  did  you  see  him,  per 
chance  ? — in  a  sober  suit  of  black  satin  which  was,  like 
himself,  the  proper  thing,  and  good  enough  and  not 
too  good,  so  that  you  marveled  somewhat,  as  you 
often  do  of  Master  Batchelor,  that  he  should  have 
hit  it  so  exactly.  Colonel  Burr — who,  by  the  way, 
asked  of  you,  and  expressed  his  sorrow  that  you  were 
not  present — was  resplendent  in  pearl  satin,  and  had 
with  him  a  pearl  indeed  in  Mistress  Wilful  Guion,  who 
quite  out-flamed  him,  since  she  was  attired,  like  a 
poppy,  all  in  scarlet." 

"In  scarlet — and  at  a  ball — Wilful?" 

"Why  not?"  questioned  Jessop. 

"Know  you  not  that  she  is  a  probationer  of  our 
Society?  Such  things  are  not  permitted  to  us.  'T  is 
but  six  months  since  she  was  taken  into  the  Society 
upon  probation.  Her  mother  is  a  Papist,  but  her  fa 
ther  was  a  member  of  the  Society  back  in  the  Caro- 
linas,  and  on  his  death-bed  Wilful  promised  him  to 
join  us.  And  now  they  will  say  she  hath  fallen  from 


MISTRESS  JOY  139 

grace,  and  they  will  discipline  her.  Oh,  poor  Wilful ! 
I  am  sorry  for  her,  though  I  am  in  my  heart,  belike, 
no  better."  She  bowed  her  head  in  proud  humility. 

As  he  sat  in  the  ball  clothes,  powdered,  curled, 
alight,  his  fine  dark  eyes,  at  Joy's  last  humble  words, 
fixed  upon  her  tired,  wistful  face  an  ardent  look. 
"Poor  little  sinner" — Joy's  lithe,  young  form  rose  al 
most  as  high  as  Jessop's,  but  she  was  in  no  mood  to 
object  to  the  manner  of  his  speech,  which  held  so  sweet 
caressing — "and  do  you  really  deem  you  are  a  wicked 
reprobate  because,  forsooth,  you  feel  the  pulse  of  youth 
bound  free  within  you  ?  Hast  thou  ever  done  harm  to 
mortal  creature — unless  to  one  poor  heart  which  thou 
first  warmed,  and  then  blew  cold  upon,  and  now  per 
chance  hast  lit  a  fire  within  that  may  consume  it?" 

His  smooth,  pleasant  voice  dropped  low,  and  he 
brought  his  face  perilously  close  to  that  beside  him. 
"Wilt  seek  to  put  it  out,  or  only  starve  the  flame  for 
want  of  proper  feeding?"  Then,  whispering,  "I  have 
grown  hard  and  bitter  and  sinful  in  misfortune,  but  I 
was  once  used  to  joy,  and  could  yet  learn  to  live  with 
it  again." 

Every  nerve  in  the  girl's  body  was  tense,  strung  to 
a  pitch  which  was  almost  irresponsibility,  but,  with  a 
brave  effort  which  Jessop  recognized  and  in  his  heart 
applauded,  she  drew  herself  together  and  said :  "Me- 
thought  I  was  to  hear  about  the  ball?  Wilful  wore 
red,  you  say;  she  often  did  before  she  joined  with  us. 
It  much  becomes  her ;  but  what  of  the  prince — the  duke 
—was  he  in  white?"  and  then  flushed  painfully. 

With  a  light  laugh,  Jessop  bent  one  knee  and,  look 
ing  straight  up  into  the  delicate,  yet  strong  face,  wan 
in  the  dimness  of  the  dull  old  room,  he  said :  "One 
there  was  in  white  who  would  fain  be  prince  to  Prin 
cess  Joy.  May  he  swear  fealty  to  her  here,  and  claim 
a  prince's  right?" 


140  MISTRESS  JOY 

Her  heart  was  in  a  tumult.  She  labored  to  fetch  her 
breath.  But  almost  roughly  she  repulsed  him.  "  'T  is 
to  be  hoped  your  other  clothes,  which  were  so  sadly 
needed,  will  be  better  served  than  these.  Ashes  are  ill 
powder  for  your  satins.  Look  to  the  hearth  there ;  you 
will  foul  yourself.  Besides,  Master  Jessop,  this  is  the 
cabin  of  a  Methodist  preacher,  and  not  a  fine  lady's 
drawing-room.  The  prince — what,  then,  was  his  at 
tire?" 

Abashed,  but  nowise  angered,  Jessop  rose  quietly  to 
his  feet.  For  a  moment  his  sword-knot  claimed  close 
attention.  Then  he  strolled,  humming  a  bit  of  dance 
music  beneath  his  breath,  toward  the  window;  and, 
coming  back  to  begin  life  all  over  again — as  Jessop 
ever  did  after  any  check  or  hindrance — seated  himself 
by  the  table  and  resumed  smilingly : 

"The  prince's  attire?  Well,  Mistress  Joy,  the  prince 
wore  blue,  not  white ;  the  blue  that  is  the  sky-tint,  much 
jeweled,  and  bedecked  with  priceless  lace,  and  on  his 
breast  were  many  orders — " 

"Orders?"  Joyce  echoed,  puzzled. 

"Orders  are  ribbons,  or  badges,  bestowed  in  recog 
nition  of  high  rank,  or  some  special  deed  of  chivalry 
or  courage.  'T  is  not  only  princes  may  wear  these. 
Thyself,  my  queen,  have  already  decorated  me  with  the 
order  of  the  Bleeding  Heart."  He  threw  her  one  of 
those  daring,  languishing  glances  befitting  the  exag 
gerated  speech. 

"Master  Jessop,"  remonstrated  Joyce,  soberly,  "I 
pray  you  do  not  use  this  tone  toward  me.  Bethink 
you  I  am  a  poor,  humble  girl ;  I  have  no  skill  where 
with  to  parry  such  speeches,  or  pay  them  back  in  kind. 
If  I  were  foolish,  I  might  even  think  you  meant  them." 

She  looked  so  sweet  and  serious,  so  noble,  and 
withal  so  beautiful,  that  Jessop's  blood  was  fired.  He 
sprang  up,  and,  going  to  her,  dropped  again  beside  her 


MISTRESS   JOY  141 

on  his  knee.  All  that  was  manly,  all  that  was  best 
in  him  was  uppermost.  "I  beg  you  to  believe,"  he 
cried,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes,  "that  I  do  mean 
them  every  word,  and  not  only  such  doltish  speeches 
as  those  which  are  current  among  the  belles  and  beaux 
of  Christendom,  but  very  much  more  which  you  de 
serve  and  which  I  cannot  express  to  my  kind  little 
nurse  and  the  dear  saint  who  is  careful  over  the  saving 
of  my  renegade  soul." 

He  did  not  touch  her,  nor  offer  her  the  light  gal 
lantries  of  the  time.  A  better  note  had  been  struck. 
Seating  himself  beside  her  on  the  settle,  he  said  gaily : 
'T  will  soon  be  day,  my  monitress  and  teacher — my 
soul's  keeper.  As  you  have  prayed  for  me  these  many 
times,  I  doubt  not,  why,  let  me  make  a  fair  return  by 
telling  you  how  the  sinful  world  wags  at  a  ball. 

"There  was  fair  Mistress  Margaret  Bruin,  of  Bayou 
Pierre,  in  slippers  all  too  tight  for  her.  Brave  child ! 
She  danced  and  never  flinched  at  all.  Were  her  feet 
as  dainty  as  some  I  wot  of,  she  'd  have  no  need  to 
cramp  them  so,"  and  he  glanced  down  at  Joy's  rough, 
clumsy  little  shoe,  which  could  not  hide  the  noble  arch 
ing  of  her  slender  foot.  "There  were  two  ladies  with 
the  governor — two  Spanish  ladies — whom  I  met  in 
London  five  years  gone ;  they  brought  me  news  of  that 
world  in  which  I  used  to  live  before  I  died  and  came 
here." 

"Before  you  died  and  came  here?"  echoed  Joyce, 
wonderingly. 

"Yea,  certes,"  returned  Jessop,  lightly ;  "are  you  not 
an  angel? — and  is  not  this  therefore  heaven? — and 
must  not  a  sinful  man  die  before  he  go  to  heaven?" 

"Were  the  gentlemen  all  dressed  as  you  were?" 
asked  Joyce,  rather  hastily.  "I  mean  in  silks  and 
satins — and  white.  Were  there  any  there  so  beautiful 
as  that?" 


i42  MISTRESS   JOY 

Again  Jessop  was  touched  almost  to  tears.  "Why, 
no,  my  little  friend,"  he  answered.  "Your  poor  peni 
tent  quite  out-dazzled  all  of  them  so  far  as  clothing 
went,  and  that  's  because  he  had  naught  else.  The 
duke  wore  jewels,  and  my  jewels,  Mistress  Joy,  have 
passed  beneath  the  sign  of  the  three  golden  apples,  and 
are  thereby  in  occultation  till  prosperity's  sunshine 
bring  me  a  better  day.'' 

He  turned  and  saw  the  face  beside  him  wet  with 
tears.  "Dear  Mistress  Joy,"  he  said,  in  some  awe  of 
her  unusual  emotion,  "is  't  possible  those  tears  are  shed 
for  me?  If  that  is  so,  I  ask  no  other  jewels." 

They  rose  by  common  consent,  hand  in  hand. 
Something,  Joy  felt,  had  come  to  her  with  that  night 
and  its  revelations  which  left  her  other  than  she  had 
been,  which  marked  a  milestone  on  her  way  from  girl 
hood  to  womanhood.  She  had  been  angry  at  Jessop, 
indignant  with  him,  half  afraid  of  him,  and  through  it 
all  admired  and  loved  him  more  than  she  desired  to  do. 
Now,  spent  with  resistance  and  doubtings  and  emotion, 
she  only  felt  that  he  was  very  dear,  and  that  it  was 
sweet  to  her  to  be  loved  by  him.  All  other  questions 
were  pushed  aside  for  future  answering. 

She  took  her  hands  from  his,  raised  them,  and  laid 
them  lightly  on  his  shoulders.  The  new  clay,  coming 
through  the  little  low  window,  smote  upon  her  face. 
There  was  something  kindred  between  Joyce  Valentine 
and  the  daybreak.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  serious. 
She  fixed  them  upon  his,  and  whispered  very  softly, 
"God  bless  you,"  and  then,  after  a  brief  pause,  "God 
keep  you  always." 

And  it  is  to  be  recorded  of  Jessop  that  so  impressed 
was  he,  and  so  touched,  by  this  strange  termination 
of  a  frivolous  conversation  about  a  ball,  that  he  for 
bore  to  proffer  any  caress  or  to  presume  in  the  least 
upon  her  loving-kindness. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


HE  Valentine  cabin  lay  peaceful  and 
quiet  in  the  evening  sunlight.  Satan 
dozed  on  the  hearth  beside  Faithful. 
Father  Tobias,  book  in  hand,  paced 
the  length  of  the  living-room,  as  was 
his  wont  when  in  any  peculiar  stress 
of  thought  or  emotion. 
Joy  was  busied  with  bread-making.  The  conflict 
of  emotions  through  which  she  had  come  since  Father 
Tobias  called  her  in  to  help  with  Jessop's  hair  had  left 
a  spent  and  wearied  look  upon  her  young  face.  The 
corners  of  her  red  lips  drooped  a  bit ;  her  step  was  in 
elastic  and  dragging  as  she  went  from  the  hearth  to 
the  table  with  bowl  or  tray.  Jessop  was  gone  again 
to  "The  Meadows,"  and  life  had  settled  down  once 
more  to  its  workaday  round. 

Joy  had  begun  upon  Jessop's  song  at  her  work : 

"The  brown  girl  she  hath  houses  and  lands, 
Fair  Ellen  she  hath  none," 

murmured  the  fresh,  young  voice  over  and  over. 

There  were  steps  outside,  and  Nicholas  Swazey, 
Abner  Chew,  Heritage  Hamtranck,  and  Demler  Dunn, 
accompanied  by  Sister  Loving  Longanecker,  who  was 
in  turn  followed  by  the  inevitable  Patience,  filed  sol 
emnly  in.  The  callers  were  suitably  greeted  and  given 
chairs,  where  they  sat  in  silence  so  persistent  that  the 


144  MISTRESS   JOY 

meeting  appeared  to  be  a  Quaker  rather  than  a  Metho 
dist  one. 

But  that  "loquacious  vessel,"  Sister  Longanecker, 
could  not  long  remain  poised  without  spilling  over  in 
conversation.  "Patience  has  been  a-telling  me,  Pas 
tor  Valentine,  for  a  long  time  that  something  ought  to 
be  done  about  one  of  our  members,"  she  began. 

"The  one  of  whom  you  spoke  to  me?"  questioned 
Father  Tobias.  "I  should  be  very  sorry  to  have  that 
matter  once  more  raised  in  the  Society." 

"We  are  all  mighty  sorry,  Master  Valentine,"  said 
Demler  Dunn's  grave,  low  voice,  "yet  none  of  us  can 
see  any  way  but  that  young  person  will  have  to  be 
dealt  with." 

Abner  Chew,  a  very  tall,  thin  man,  with  rugged,  seri 
ous  face  and  gray  hair,  began  solemnly,  as  a  man  enun 
ciating  important  matter,  to  relate  the  delinquencies 
of  the  young  girl  whose  case  was  under  consideration. 
"It  is  Mistress  Wilful  Guion  of  whom  we  speak,"  he 
announced.  "I  am  informed  that  she  hath  been  seen 
with  ribbons  of  a  blue  or  scarlet  color — was  it  blue  or 
scarlet,  Sister  Longanecker? — tying  up  her  locks." 

"Aye,"  volleyed  the  sister  thus  bidden  forth  from 
silence,  "and  a  tucker  frilled  till  't  was  scarce  to  be 
known  as  a  tucker  at  all !  'T  was  modish  frivolity — a 
scandal,  and  a  shame — on  the  neck  of  a  young  female 
who  professes  to  belong  to  the  Methodist  Society — 
though  she  be  but  a  probationer,  and — " 

Father  Tobias  turned  impatiently  to  Master  Dunn. 
There  was  an  infrequent  frown  on  his  brow.  "These 
be  small  matters,  it  appears  to  me,  to  bring  against  a 
brother  or  a  sister  in  the  Society. .  Have  ye  aught  more 
serious  to  present?"  he  interrupted  sharply. 

"Why,  surely,  Master  Valentine,"  broke  in  Nicholas 
Swazey,  "you  are  not  unaware  that  this  young  woman 
hath  attended  a  ball  ?  Yea,  in  the  company  of  a  god- 


MISTRESS  JOY  145 

less  man  called  Burr.  I  myself  have  no  desire  to  know 
of  these  matters.  If  we  have  put  the  world  away  from 
us,  I  hold  that  curiosity  as  to  its  doings  is  sinful;  but 
I  have  a  son,  as  you  know,  who  is  a  young  man,  and 
the  young  are  not  always  to  be  controlled  in  their 
desires." 

Back  at  the  kitchen  table,  her  hands  deep  in  dough, 
Joyce  winced  at  these  words,. 

"Well,  Master  Swazey,  and  what  then?"  urged  the 
preacher.  "Are  we  to  discipline  your  son  also?" 

"Nay,  I  meant  not  that,"  returned  Nicholas,  naively; 
"yet  I  will  relate  his  fault,  and  if  it  seemeth  good  to 
the  class  I  will  not,  because  he  is  my  son,  seek  to 
shield  him  from  the  discipline." 

Master  Valentine  strode  to  the  window  and  stood 
looking  out,  his  hands  knotted  behind  his  back,  his 
troubled  eyes  upon  the  roadway. 

Such  scenes  as  this  always  tried  his  soul.  For  some 
reason  which  he  could  not  explain  to  himself,  he  longed 
for  the  sight  of  David  Batchelor. 

As  David  was  not  a  member  of  any  of  the  classes, 
it  would  be  improper  for  him  to  be  present,  and  Father 
Tobias  sighed  restively  and  turned  back  to  face  those 
in  the  room  behind  him.  They  were  good  people,  they 
were  his  own  people,  yet  the  harshness  of  their  judg 
ment,  the  narrowness  of  their  vision  in  this  matter, 
made  him  crave  speech  with  one  wrhose  breadth  and 
strong  humanity  were  more  nearly  akin  to  the  pastor's 
own  soul. 

Sister  Longanecker  could  bear  repression  no  longer. 
"She  hath  danced!  Wilful  Guion  hath  danced!  She 
was  seen  moving  her  feet,  and  her  hands,  and  head 
and  body  too,  belike,  to  the  lewd  music  of  the  fiddle. 
Nicholas  Swazey's  own  son  Samuel  spied  through  the 
window  and  saw  her,  and—  "  with  a  swift  side  glance 
at  Patience — "  't  was  a  wicked,  wicked  thing  for  him 


146  MISTRESS   JOY 

to  do,  and  one  for  which  he  should  be  disciplined,  I 
warrant,  as  his  own  father  doth  not  deny." 

"Well,  well,  well,  now  let  us  have  the  conclusion 
of  the  whole  matter,"  interposed  Father  Tobias. 
"This  child,  who  is  particularly  dear  to  my  soul  be 
cause  she  came  to  us  out  of  the  fold  of  the  Catholics, 
and  of  her  own  free  will,  not  six  months  gone,  hath 
been  seen  to  tie  her  hair  with  a  bright  ribbon  and  she 
hath  gone  to  a  dance." 

"With  a  most  godless  man,"  supplied  Sister  Longa- 
necker,  promptly.  "Patience  says  to  me  early  this 
morning,  'Mommy,'  says  she,  'if  that  wicked  man  was 
to  come  about  you  or  me  they  'd  have  us  up  before  the 
class,  and  I  don't  see  what  better  Wilful  Guion  is  just 
because  she  hath  been  a  Catholic.' ' 

"My  friends,"  said  the  pastor,  who  appeared  to 
have  listened  not  at  all  to  these  edifying  remarks,  "I 
will  attend  to  this  matter.  I  should  prefer  that  the 
poor  child  seek  me,  but  the  occurrence  of  the  ball  can 
not  be  passed  over,  and  I  must  e'en  go  to  her  with 
fatherly  counsel." 

"Not  to  her  house,"  interposed  Sister  Longanecker, 
in  a  horrified  tone.  "The  mother  is  a  Papist,  and  a 
widow  at  that."  Why  a  widow,  Papist  or  otherwise, 
should  be  a  dangerous  creature  for  Master  Valentine  to 
encounter,  Sister  Loving  did  not  pause  to  explain. 

Joy  had  withdrawn  her  hands  from  the  dough  and 
washed  them.  Now  she  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
looking  tall  and  pale  and  tired,  but  her  clear  eyes  bright 
with  indignation.  "You  need  not  trouble  yourselves," 
she  said  quietly,  "to  discipline  Wilful ;  and  father  here 
may  never  go  to  see  her,  except  as  a  friend.  We  have 
lost  her.  She  is  gone  back  to  her  own  church." 

There  was  an  expression  of  deep  dismay  on  the  faces 
of  all  her  hearers — all  except  Sister  Longanecker. 

"Well,    of    all    things !"    cried    Patience's    mother. 


MISTRESS   JOY  147 

"  'T  is  an  easy  way  to  dodge  the  discipline.  I  hold 
that  we  should  turn  her  out  for  our  own  credit,  whether 
she  goeth  back  to  the  Catholics  or  no." 

"Nay,  Sister  Longanecker,"  said  Swazey,  the  man 
who  had  been  willing  that  his  own  son  should  be  dis 
ciplined.  "I  am  grieved  to  the  heart,  and  I  know  that 
all  the  Society  will  be  so  grieved,  that  we  should  lose 
Mistress  Wilful — not  that  we  should  lose  her,  but  that 
she  should  fall  thus  from  grace  to  the  damnation  of 
her  own  soul.  Yet  I  think  it  not  meet  nor  kind  that 
we  should  attempt  to  discipline  one  who  is  no  longer 
a  member." 

"Though  my  daughter's  words  come  upon  me  as  a 
distressing  surprise,"  said  the  pastor,  "I  am  not  with 
out  hope  in  the  case.  The  child  is  young,  she  hath 
been  over-persuaded,  her  mother  is  a  Papist;  she  may 
yet  repent,  and  see  once  more  the  errors  of  Rome. 
I  would  not  have  her  think  that  the  Society  had  cast 
her  out,  nor  that  we  love  her  less;  rather  should  we 
love  her  more  for  her  error,  which  needeth  more  love, 
and  seek  to  lay  hold  upon  her  and  draw  her  back  into 
the  fold." 

At  all  this  talk  of  love,  Sister  Longanecker  looked 
very  wild  indeed.  She  appeared  to  examine  the  re 
marks,  and  to  decide  finally  that  there  was  nothing 
actually  contraband  in  them.  Finally  she  said,  in  a 
dissatisfied  tone :  "I  fear  me  the  Society  is  growing  lax, 
Master  Valentine.  What  would  ye  say  now  if  I,  or  my 
daughter  Patience  here,  accepted  attentions  from  this 
man  Burr?" 

The  pastor  could  not  repress  a  smile.  "Why,  I 
think  I  should  say,  sister,  that  as  you  are  well  grounded 
in  the  true  faith,  and  Colonel  Burr  a  very  courteous 
gentleman,  he  was  like  to  do  you  no  harm,  and  you 
might  mayhap  do  him  a  world  of  good." 

"Are  you  aware,  Sister  Longanecker,"  broke  in  Joy's 


148  MISTRESS  JOY 

clear,  angry  tones,  "that  Colonel  Burr  hath  been  a  fre 
quent  guest  in  this  house — yea,  and  a  very  welcome 
and  a  pleasant  guest?" 

Sister  Longanecker's  face  puckered  into  a  most  curi 
ous  expression.  She  did  know  this,  nor  was  it  her 
fault  if  the  thing  had  not  become  a  public  scandal  in 
the  Society.  "I  have  heard  say,"  she  finally  began 
cautiously,  "but  those  who  spoke  to  me  were  more  con 
cerned  about  this  wayfaring  man  whom  you  have 
taken  in." 

For  three  years  Sister  Longanecker's  one  hope  had 
been  to  steer  Joyce  into  the  haven  of  matrimony,  when 
Pastor  Valentine,  left  quite  unprotected,  would  surely 
be  an  easy  victim.  She  was  perhaps  a  little  mad  on  the 
subject,  and  every  man  who  approached  the  Valentine 
homestead  presented  himself  to  her  mind  as  a  possible 
suitor  for  Joy.  Jessop  had  appeared  extremely  avail 
able  material  for  this  use,  and  she  regretted  to  do 
anything  which  might  interfere  with  so  excellent  a 
plan.  Candor,  however,  compelled  her  to  mention 
him. 

At  the  words,  Joyce  flushed  and  looked  to  her  father 
for  assistance.  "I  see  no  scandal,"  said  Father  Tobias, 
"in  a  man,  be  he  pastor  of  the  flock  or  member  of  the 
Society,  succoring  the  needy.  Nay,  we  are  com 
manded  so  to  do.  I  have  great  hope  for  the  soul  of 
the  young  brother  who  is  with  me.  The  Society  may 
at  any  time  question  me  in  this  matter  or  any  other, 
but  I  would  ask  that,  so  far  as  this  is  concerned,  they 
have  patience  and  give  me  time,  for  I  have,  as  I  say 
to  you,  high  hopes  for  his  soul." 

Sister  Longanecker  rose,  wreathed  in  smiles,  and 
went  over  to  Joy,  who  retreated  before  her  to  the 
kitchen.  "Well,  now,  if  I  had  known  that  was  the 
way  of  it,"  she  whispered,  "I  'd  never  have  spoken  a 
word.  Patience  says  to  me,  she  says,  only  this  morn- 


MISTRESS   JOY  149 

ing,  'Mommy,  nobody  can't  live  in  the  house  with  Sis 
ter  Joyce  Valentine  without  loving  her.'  Patience  she 
loves  you,  Sister  Joyce,  I  do  assure  you,  just  like  a 
sister — exactly  like  a  sister." 

Joy's  graceful  head  was  held  very  high  indeed;  there 
was  a  scarlet  stain  on  each  cheek.  To  speak  in  worldly 
parlance,  she  was  angry.  She  would  have  liked  to 
shake  the  speaker.  "I  do  not  understand  what  you 
may  be  hinting  at,  Sister  Longanecker,"  she  said 
haughtily,  and  then  proved  that  she  did  understand  by 
adding:  "I  do  not  hold  every  man  who  giveth  me 
'good  morrow'  to  have  made  me  a  tender  of  marriage. 
Master  Jessop  is  my  father's  guest,  not  mine.  I  know 
him  little,  and" — with  a  sudden  access  of  temper — "I 
like  him  less." 

Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  Jessop's  face  behind 
Sister  Longanecker's  broad  shoulder.  He  had  re 
turned  from  his  work,  and,  not  desiring  to  interrupt 
the  men,  who  were  still  talking  in  the  living-room,  had 
rome  toward  the  kitchen,  where  Sister  Longanecker's 
portly  form  blocked  the  doorway. 

In  her  embarrassment  and  distress,  Joy  turned  once 
more  to  her  neglected  bread.  The  pones  must  be 
ready  and  hot  for  Jessop's  supper.  He  was  working 
all  day  now  in  the  field  like  a  day  laborer,  and  Joy, 
whose  attitude  toward  all  for  whom  she  cared  was  ma 
ternal,  took  great  thought  that  he  should  be  properly 
fed  and  nourished. 

Sister  Longanecker's  embarrassment  was  quite  equal 
to  Joy's,  but  she  covered  it  as  best  she  might  with  volu 
ble  references  to  what  the  inexhaustible  Patience  had 
said  to  her  and  what  she  had  said  in  reply. 

Back  in  the  room  beyond,  one  of  the  hard-featured, 
weather-beaten  old  men  was  in  tears.  He  wept  freely 
and  without  shame,  as  a  child  might  weep, — this  ear 
nest,  narrow-minded,  good  old  man, — over  the  falling 


150  MISTRESS  JOY 

from  grace  of  a  young  girl  with  whom  he  had  scarcely 
exchanged  a  dozen  words. 

To  these  early  Christians  the  terms  sister  and  bro 
ther  were  not  empty  ones;  rather  they  stood  for  more 
than  the  words  could  mean  where  in  the  family  they 
represent  the  tie  of  blood  alone.  The  five  old  men 
went  patiently  into  the  details  of  the  matter.  The 
exact  shade  of  the  ribbon  which  poor  Wilful  had  worn, 
its  width  and  disposition,  were  in  their  eyes  impor 
tant  concerns — things  to  be  weighed  and  debated  upon. 
The  very  tune  to  which  she  had  moved  her  erring  little 
feet  came  under  consideration,  and  when  it  was  known 
that  the  gown  she  wore  was  a  scarlet  one,  that  fact  was 
held  to  seriously  aggravate  her  offense. 

Before  the  committee  departed,  Master  Valentine  re 
called  Sister  Longanecker  to  the  room,  and  they  all 
knelt  in  earnest  prayer.  The  pastor  supplicated  first 
for  the  erring  sister,  that  she  be  led  aright,  that 
God,  in  his  own  good  time,  would  show  her  the  way. 
For  themselves,  he  asked  that  they  be  given  grace  to 
bear  with  the  failings  of  others,  to  look  each  into  his 
own  heart,  and,  seeing  there  the  sin,  be  very  merciful  to 
those  who  falter  or  stumble  openly,  where  their  failings 
may  be  known  of  men. 

The  door  was  closed  between  the  living-room  and 
the  kitchen;  Jessop  leaned  his  shoulder  against  the 
lintel,  and  gazed  at  Joy  while  she  worked  over  her 
bread.  This  scrutiny  did  not  improve  her  skill.  She 
spilled  the  coarse,  yellow  meal  over  the  snowy  table, 
dropped  her  spoon  with  a  startling  clatter,  and  bent 
her  head  down  over  the  pones  till  Jessop  could  see  no 
thing  but  the  twist  of  her  bronze  hair  and  the  nape  of 
her  white  neck. 

Finally  he  quoted,  in  a  reminiscent  tone:  "And  so, 
Mistress  Joy,  you  'know  me  little,  and  like  me  less.' 
Perchance  if  you  knew  me  better  you  would  like  me 
better;  what  think  you?" 


MISTRESS  JOY  151 

Joy  was  so  long  silent  that  he  almost  fancied  she 
was  not  going  to  answer  at  all.  Finally  she  began, 
in  a  very  low  voice :  "I  am  sorry,  Master  Jessop;  I  was 
angry.  'T  is  a  besetting  sin  of  mine,  one  against 
which  I  daily  pray  for  grace/' 

"What  angered  you,  Mistress  Joy?"  inquired  Jessop. 
"Was  't  something  I  did?" 

"Nay,"  returned  Joy,  with  quick,  innocent  kindliness. 
"You  never  anger  me  now;  't  was  what  Sister  Lov 
ing  said." 

"What  she  said  of  me?"  persisted  Jessop.  "Why, 
let  her  say  what  she  will" — laughing  a  little — "she 
will  not  paint  me  as  black  as  the  truth." 

"She  spoke  no  ill  of  you;  she  said  that  you — that 
I—  "  and  then  Joyce  quite  broke  down. 

Jessop  whistled  softly,  and  laughed  again.  Joyce 
was  putting  her  pones  in  the  oven,  setting  that  upon 
its  bed  of  coals,  and  heaping  the  live  coals  on  its  lid. 
"So,"  he  said,  as  she  finished  and  stood  up  facing 
him,  "we  have  gossips  here  in  the  wilderness  as  well 
as  in  the  great  world.  You  did  well  to  be  angry,  Mis 
tress  Valentine,  at  your  name  being  linked  with  that  of 
a  man  who  comes  from  the  Lord  knows  where  and 
may  have  done  the  Lord  knows  what."  The  pleasant 
voice  dropped  to  a  tone  of  bitterness  as  he  finished. 

'T  was  not  that,"  corrected  Joy,  in  haste  to  com 
fort  him.  "  'T  was  because  there  was  n't  any  truth  in 
what  she  said  that  I  was  angry." 

"Mistress  Joy,  Mistress  Joy !"  cried  Jessop,  throwing 
back  his  head  and  laughing.  "Now,  who  but  Mistress 
Joyce  Valentine  would  say  a  thing  like  that?"  He 
drew  nearer,  flushed  and  smiling,  and  Joy  retreated  to 
her  table,  where  she  made  pretense  of  some  task  to 
occupy  her  hands  and  still  that  uncomfortably  tumul 
tuous  beating  of  the  heart  which,  she  had  found,  always 
answered  this  mood  in  Jessop. 

"See,  sweeting,"  leaning  upon  the  table  beside  her, 


152  MISTRESS   JOY 

and  trying  to  look  around  into  her  half-averted  face, 
"you  say  that  you  were  angry  because  't  was  not  so. 
Then  that  means  that  you  would  be  pleased  if  't  were 
true,  doth  it  not? — doth  it  not,  sweet  Mistress  Joy?" 

Honesty  kept  Joy  silent  till  she  felt  Jessop's  arm 
stealing  about  her  waist.  Then  she  turned,  and,  with 
drawing  herself  a  little  from  him,  faltered,  "I  do  not 
know  what  't  is  I  feel.  'T  is  always  pleasant  to  be 
loved,  is  it  not,  Master  Jessop?"  looking  him  honestly 
in  the  face.  "And  when  I  think  so  I  take  great  de 
light  in  your  words." 

"Then  listen,"  murmured  Jessop,  again  attempting  to 
put  that  ready  arm  about  her.  "I  have  very  many  of 
those  sweet  words  to  say  to  you ;  listen  to  them,  sweet 
heart,  an  they  please  you." 

But  Joy  again  drew  away,  speaking  in  the  hushed 
tone  they  had  come  to  use — they  were  both  a  trifle 
frightened.  "That  is  not  all.  I  say  that  sometimes  I 
am  pleased,  but  sometimes  I  am  afraid ;  and  then  I  feel 
that  it  is  a  sin  to  listen  to  you  at  all.  I  am,  you  know, 
to  be  a  preacher  of  the  Word,  and  you  belong  to  that 
world  which  we  have  renounced." 

Jessop  was  thoroughly  in  earnest  now;  opposition 
was  all  he  ever  needed  to  produce  that  frame  of  mind. 
"And  yet,"  he  said  reproachfully,  "you  claim  that  you 
love  my  soul,  that  you  desire  my  salvation.  How  can 
you  push  me  from  you,  and  out  into  temptation? 
With  you,  beloved,  I  could  be  all  that  you  desire. 
These  little  hands  could  lead  me  anywhere." 

He  had  possessed  himself  of  both  the  members  of 
which  he  spoke  so  feelingly. 

Joy,  far  from  pushing  him  away  as  she  had  been 
accused  of  doing,  drooped  so  close  to  his  shoulder  that 
a  few  threads  of  her  loosened  hair  blew  across  his 
cheek.  And  the  name  of  the  next  Countess  of  Shrop 
shire  trembled  in  the  balance. 


MISTRESS  JOY  153 

The  sound  of  the  departing  committee,  the  approach 
of  Father  Tobias  toward  the  kitchen,  brought  these 
two  back  from  the  frontiers  of  that  dangerous  fairyland 
toward  which  they  had  been  traveling. 

"Do  not  forget  that  I  love  you,"  whispered  Jessop, 
passionately,  as  he  pressed  the  little  hands  against  his 
breast.  "Give  me  speech  with  you  again."  And  Joy 
did  not  say  nay. 


CHAPTER   XV 

was  three  years  since  the  treaty  of  San 
Lorenzo  had  given  the  Mississippi 
province  to  the  United  States. 

Yet,  owing  to  Spain's  policy  of  de 
lay,  the  Natchez  district  was  still,  in 
spite   of   the   entry   of   some   United 
States  troops,  a  no-man's-land,  offer 
ing  an  alluring  field  to  the  enterprising  adventurer. 

For  months  past,  Burr's  friends — spies,  his  enemies 
called  them — had  been  busy  feeling  for  him  the  public 
pulse. 

The  happiest  peoples,  we  say,  have  no  history.  And 
yet  we  find  it  true  that  the  failures,  also,  are  apt  to  be 
dropped  out  of  or  never  get  into  the  register.  Who 
knows  of  the  engagement  which  was  secretly  made, 
and  secretly  broken,  between  two  young  people  a  hun 
dred  years  ago?  Where  is  the  record  of  the  conspir 
acy,  freighted  with  hopes,  beset  with  fears,  and  care 
fully  guarded  to  the  day  of  its  failure  by  those  who 
have  been  churchyard  mold  these  fifty  years  ? 

The  plotting  of  the  Spaniards  to  hold  this  territory, 
the  aid  and  countenance  given  them  by  prominent  men 
of  Tennessee  and  Georgia  who  had  no  mind  to  be  cut 
off  by  a  hostile  power  from  the  fine  market  of  New 
Orleans,  come  down  to  us  in  documentary  evidence. 

For  the  other  cabals  we  have  only  hints.  It  is  cer 
tain  that  Ellicott,  of  whom  Burr  made  much  use, 
was  ambitious  to  be  appointed  first  governor  of  the  new 


MISTRESS   JOY  155 

territory  when  the  United  States  should  formally  take 
possession.  His  machinations,  therefore,  never  con 
templated  the  dissevering  of  the  province  from  this 
country.  That  he  and  others  carried  on  a  system  of 
intrigue  and  spying,  fomented  quarrels  between  pri 
vate  families  where  it  served  their  turn,  and  kept  an 
unwritten  record  of  every  man's  politics  and  possibili 
ties,  lives  in  tradition  and  upon  the  pages  of  many  a 
musty,  little-read  history  of  the  times.  But  later,  when 
conditions  were  much  more  unfavorable  for  such  a 
venture,  Aaron  Burr  was  attainted  of  this  very  treason. 

What  his  ultimate  ambition  was  in  1798  regarding 
the  Mississippi  territory  will  now  never  be  known.  It 
seems  likely,  from  the  temper  of  the  man  as  it  appears 
to  us  in  this  day,  that  his  hopes  reached  forward  to  the 
founding  of  an  empire,  and  not  a  republic.  Had  suc 
cess  waited  upon  his  efforts,  there  would  have  been 
another  face  in  our  gallery  of  heroes  and  patriots.  But 
he  failed.  Failure  and  treason  are  apt  to  be  one  in 
this  world. 

It  was  March,  1798.  The  time  approached  when,  if 
any  blow  was  to  be  struck,  it  could  no  longer  be  de 
layed.  Since  Jessop's  convalescence  and  his  conspicu 
ous  appearance  at  the  ball,  Colonel  Burr  had  thought 
best  to  discontinue  his  visits  to  Pastor  Valentine's 
house,  lest  the  attention  of  his  friends  the  enemy — as 
represented  by  the  Spanish  commandant  and  garrison 
—be  unduly  attracted  to  his  movements.  Yet  com 
munication  between  the  two  men  was  not  wanting. 

Wilful  having  gone  back  to  her  own  church,  the 
relations  between  the  Guions  and  their  Spanish  neigh 
bors  were  again  harmonious.  Burr  was  more  con 
tinually  than  ever  at  "Half-way  Cottage,"  and  he  fre 
quently  joined  Jessop  when  the  latter  was  on  his  way 
to  or  from  "The  Meadows."  These  meetings  did  not 
take  place  upon  the  highroad,  but  usually  in  a  little 


156  MISTRESS  JOY 

grove  of  beech  and  magnolia  through  which  Jessop 
passed  to  reach  the  farm  gate.  Here  earnest  confabu 
lations  were  held,  Burr  walking  with  his  horse's  bridle 
looped  over  his  arm.  Frequently  they  were  joined  by 
two  or  three  others.  These  brought  information,  oral 
messages,  but  never  a  scrap  of  written  paper. 

The  recklessness  in  Jessop's  nature,  which  went  so 
closely  hand  in  hand  with  generosity  and  gay  good 
humor  that  it  almost  seemed  another  virtue,  inclined 
him  to  lend  a  ready  ear  to  such  matters  as  were  dis 
cussed  at  these  meetings.  Then,  too,  he  was  in  urgent 
need  of  money.  David  paid  him  the  wage  of  a  work 
ing-man,  which,  unskilled  as  he  was,  he  felt  that  he 
scarcely  earned.  The  thought  of  again  appealing  for 
aid  to  those  at  home  was  bitter.  The  idea  of  selling 
such  articles  of  value  as  had  come  in  the  great  chest  of 
clothing  never  occurred  to  him.  He  had  wrenched 
away  the  diamond  star  and  buckles  from  his  white  suit 
and  pawned  them  long  ago.  A  gentleman  pawns  his 
jewels,  but  he  does  not  turn  old  clo'-man  and  sell  his 
cast-off  apparel. 

The  sign  agreed  upon  between  these  conspirators — 
if  conspirators  they  were — was  that  when  a  general 
meeting  was  called,  a  little  bundle  of  sticks  should  be 
sent  to  each  member  of  the  band,  the  number  signifying 
how  many  days  should  elapse  before  the  meeting.  The 
rendezvous  was  always  the  little  grove;  the  time,  sun 
rise. 

One  clay,  as  Jessop  was  departing  for  his  work,  he 
turned  back.  "Mistress  Joyce,"  he  called,  and  then 
finding  her  alone  in  the  living-room,  "Joy,  one  may 
come  here — a  little  Indian  lad,  mayhap — with  some 
what  for  me.  If  I  am  absent  when  the  messenger  ar 
rives,  will  you  keep  that  which  he  brings,  and  not  fail 
to  give  it  to  me  on  my  return?" 

"Why,  that  depends,"  returned  Joyce,  saucily.     She 


MISTRESS  JOY  157 

was  learning  to  be  at  ease  in  Jessop's  company,  and 
perhaps  learning  other  lessons  which  he  was  at  much 
patient  pains  to  teach  her. 

"It  depends,  doth  it,  sweetheart — and  upon  what?" 
he  asked. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,"  answered  Joy,  "it  depends 
upon  whether  that  which  the  boy  brings  be  anything 
I  want  for  myself.  Mayhap  if  't  is  I  shall  keep  it." 

Jessop  shook  his  head  smilingly.  "Nay,  't  is  no 
thing  you  would  want,"  he  said. 

"Well,  then,"  pursued  Joy,  "it  depends  on  whether 
I  think  the  thing  is  something  which  will  be  good  for 
you.  If  I  believe  this,  then  I  may  give  it  you." 

"  T  will  be  naught  but  a  little  bundle  of  sticks," 
explained  Jessop;  "just  little  barky  twigs.  And  pray 
you,  dearest,  do  not  unbind  them,  for  the  number  will 
have  a  significance  to  me." 

Across  Joy's  jnind  flashed  Massawippa's  story  of  the 
stolen  arrows.  For  some  reason,  she  knew  not  what, 
she  caught  her  breath,  dropped  all  jesting,  and  began 
to  speak  in  sober  earnest.  "  'T  is  a  signal,"  she  said ; 
"I  feel  it  is.  You  are  to  meet  some  one,  somewhere, 
in  just  so  many  days  as  there  be  sticks  in  the  bunch. 
I  know  it." 

Her  face  was  so  troubled  that  Jessop,  delighted  at 
the  emotion  he  had  aroused,  drew  near  and  caught  her 
hand.  "You  are  jealous,  Joy!"  he  cried  boyishly. 
"Sweetheart,  you  do  love  me  a  little !  But  indeed  here 
is  no  reason  for  jealousy.  There  is  but  one  Joy  in  the 
world  for  me,  and  she  is  here." 

For  once,  Joy  let  his  tender  words  pass  quite  unre- 
buked.  "What  is  this  thing  must  needs  be  done  so 
secretly?"  she  questioned.  "That  which  is  right  fears 
not  the  day." 

"Well,  then,  I  promise  you,  my  heart,  that  I  shall, 
by  reason  of  those  twigs,  go  nowhere  but  from  here 


158  MISTRESS   JOY 

to  'The  Meadows,'  and  at  my  usual  time.  I  shall 
meet  by  the  way,  so  far  as  I  now  know,  none  but  men. 
Will  that  content  my  jealous  sweetheart?" 

"No,  I  am  not  jealous" — a  little  impatiently — "yes, 
I  am.  I  am  jealous  for  your  soul,  Master  Jessop.  I 
would  not  have  you  fall  again  into  sin." 

Jessop  puckered  his  lips  as  if  to  whistle,  and  looked 
a  trifle  annoyed.  Making  love  to  the  prettiest  Puri 
tan  in  the  world  is  a  tantalizing  piece  of  business. 
"You  Methodists,"  he  expostulated,  "are  full  of  quib 
bles.  How  can  you  be  jealous  for  a  man's  soul  and 
not  for  the  man  himself?" 

Joy  sighed.  "I  fear  you  are  right,"  she  answered 
meekly.  "I  pray  daily  for  grace,  but  I  know  that  I 
am  very  faulty ;  I  can  never  tell  whether  these  impulses 
which  seem  to  me  strongest  and  most  beautiful  in  my 
heart  come  really  from  God  or  no." 

Father  Tobias,  searching  for  the  hundredth  time  for 
the  book  which  he  had  been  reading  and  the  loose  sheets 
upon  which  he  had  been  making  notes,  called  to  his 
daughter  from  the  room  above. 

"If  they  come  I  shall  burn  them,"  whispered  Joyce, 
defiantly,  as  she  pulled  away  her  hand. 

"Aye,  burn  them — burn  them!  I  shall  exact  a  kiss 
for  each  stick,"  laughed  Jessop,  "and  pray,  in  that  case, 
that  there  be  many  of  them." 

All  day,  about  her  household  tasks,  the  puzzle  of 
this  thing  followed  Joy.  She  was  the  material  of 
which  prophetess  and  priestess  are  made.  A  very  little 
hint  led  her  instinctively  to  the  truth  of  any  matter, 
especially  where  her  heart  was  engaged.  Now,  as  she 
swept  and  dusted  and  scrubbed  and  garnished,  there 
came  together  in  her  mind  a  dozen  half-forgotten 
things  which  persuaded  her  that  Jessop's  appointment 
was  with  Colonel  Burr. 

Her  guess  was  not  so  wonderful  as  it  may  seem.     It 


MISTRESS  JOY  159 

was  an  open  secret  which 'anybody — even  the  Metho 
dists,  who  held  themselves  a  people  apart  not  only  from 
the  Spanish  Catholics,  but  from  the  other  creeds  among 
their  own  countrymen — might  know,  that  there  was 
political  ferment  abroad  in  the  land,  that  not  one  but 
many  conspiracies  were  afoot,  and  that  there  was  dan 
ger  of  the  territory  going  back  to  Spain.  Further  than 
this  Joyce  could  not,  of  course,  imagine. 

Spain — old  Catholic  Spain — stood  to  Joy's  people 
for  the  antichrist.  The  prospect  of  speedy  deliverance 
from  Spanish  rule  had  been  hailed  by  them  with  ho- 
sannas.  The  feebleness  of  the  efforts  made  by  the 
United  States  to  hold  the  land  was  regarded  with 
terror.  That  Jessop  should  be  concerned  with  any 
thing  which  might  be  inimical  to  the  United  States 
government  seemed  to  her  very  terrible,  but  quite  pos 
sible.  He  was  an  Englishman.  Little  as  she  knew  of 
him,  she  well  understood  that  his  sympathies  were  with 
his  own  people  in  the  matter  of  the  Revolution — a 
rebellion,  he  called  it. 

Late  in  the  day,  when  she  had  begun  to  look  down 
the  path  by  which  Jessop  might  be  expected,  came  one 
of  Master  David's  negro  farm-hands,  bearing  a  letter 
addressed  to  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine. 

Joyce  had  received  three  letters  in  her  life ;  of  these, 
one  was  a  note  from  Lady  Connor,  accompanying  a 
little  gift  of  books  sent  to  her  on  her  fourteenth  birth 
day.  The  others  came  from  Father  Tobias  during 
that  memorable  time  when  he  went  East  to  hear  Bar 
bara  Heck  preach.  Lady  Connor's  letter  was  a  thin, 
sweet-scented,  silken  little  thing,  written  in  the  cramped, 
delicate  hand  of  age.  It  was  formal  though  affec 
tionate,  and  there  were  in  it  many  beautiful  phrases, 
which  Joyce  learned  by  heart  and  still  treasured  in  her 
mind.  It  appeared  to  her  at  fourteen  the  most  won 
derful  and  beautiful  epistle  ever  penned. 


160  MISTRESS  JOY 

Father  Tobias's  two  letters  were  models,  according 
to  the  standards  of  that  day  and  time,  of  all  that  a 
father's  letters  should  be.  They  conveyed  much  in 
formation,  they  administered  much  good  advice,  and 
they  now  reposed  in  Joy's  little  casket,  along  with  her 
handkerchiefs,  her  hymnal,  and  sundry  sprigs  of  lav 
ender.  But  something  in  her  inexperienced  heart  told 
her  that  this  letter  was  a  different  affair.  It  was  writ 
ten  on  heavy,  rough  paper,  sealed  with  the  signet  ring 
Jessop  always  wore,  and  addressed  in  a  bold,  practised 
masculine  hand.  The  very  letters  which  formed  her 
own  name  upon  it  looked,  to  her  eye,  masterful  and 
encroaching.  She  took  it  with  a  fluttering  heart,  bade 
the  negro  sit  down  on  the  kitchen  doorstep,  and  fled  to 
her  little  attic  room  to  read  it. 

This  was  the  letter : 

"SWEETHEART:  I  am  detained  to-night  by  Master 
David's  entreaties.  We  are  setting  the  new  Gin  in 
place,  and  Master  Batchelor  is  so  impatient  that  we 
will  work  all  night  to  be  ready  for  the  ginning  by 
Daylight.  Since  I  shall  not  sleep,  Dear  One,  I  shall 
not  dream  of  you;  but  my  thoughts,  Heart's  Delight, 
will  be  with  you  as  always.  I  shall  send  a  Thousand 
little  Loves  to  flutter  about  your  Pillow  and  whisper 
to  you  of  me,  so  that  your  Dreams  may  be  of  no  other. 
I  send  you,  Dearest,  the  Kisses  which  you  would  not 
let  me  give  you,  were  I  there.  And  I  am,  Beloved, 

"Yours  always, 

"JESSOP." 

Can  any  other  communication  ever  be  to  a  woman 
like  her  first  love-letter?  The  characters  written  by 
Jessop  at  speed  and  carelessly  seemed  alive  before  Joy's 
eyes.  She  put  down  her  fingers  and  caressed  the  lines, 
and  then  blushing,  though  there  was  none  to  see  the 


MISTRESS   JOY  161 

action,  she  raised  and  kissed  them  gently  as  one  might 
kiss  a  baby's  cheek. 

The  words  were  music,  and,  to  her  simple  mind,  so 
much  more  binding,  so  much  truer,  than  mere  spoken 
words.  She  had  read  the  letter  over  for  perhaps  the 
twentieth  time,  and  was  beginning  to  think  that  she 
would  better  go  back  and  dismiss  its  bearer,  when  a 
little  dusky  head  rose  solemnly  through  the  opening  of 
the  stairway,  and  a  diminutive  Indian  boy  presented 
for  her  inspection  a  couple  of  twigs  bound  tightly  to 
gether  with  a  cotton  twine. 

"Who  sent  it,  Tohopeka?"  she  questioned.  The  boy 
shook  his  head. 

"Who  is  it  for?"  she  next  asked. 

"Him,"  was  all  the  reply  she  could  extort.  It  was 
evidently  the  message  which  Jessop  had  been  expecting. 

"When  did  you  get  it  ?"  she  persisted. 

"Yesterday,"  he  answered  laconically. 

"Why  did  n't  you  bring  it  then  ?" 

"Fishing,"  he  replied,  apparently  much  bored  by  her 
inquisition. 

She  took  the  sticks  and  the  letter,  and  laid  them 
one  upon  the  other  in  her  treasure-box.  Theft  she 
went  below,  dismissed  the  negro,  and  set  about  her 
preparations  for  Father  Tobias's  supper. 

It  was  the  first  time  since  his  convalescence  that 
Jessop's  presence  had  been  wanting  at  the  board,  and 
they  both  missed  him  sorely.  He  was  subject  to  moods 
of  depression,  of  almost  savage  gloom,  but  the  ruling 
spirit  of  his  nature  was  gaiety,  and,  as  Father  Tobias 
said,  he  seemed  when  gone  to  take  some  of  the  sun 
shine  with  him. 

Jessop  may  have  sent  the  winged  loves  to  Joy's  pil 
low  that  night,  but  perchance  the  little  wanderers  were 
scared  by  the  desolate  land  in  which  they  found  them 
selves,  or  lost  upon  the  way;  for  the  dreams  Joy  had, 


162  MISTRESS  JOY 

if  troubled,  half-waking  visions  such  as  hers  may  be 
called  dreams,  were  far  from  pleasant. 

In  the  morning  she  rose  while  it  was  yet  dark, 
donned  her  gray  homespun  dress,  and  added,  more  for 
concealment  than  for  warmth,  though  the  morning  air 
had  its  own  sharp  chill,  the  long  gray  homespun  cloak 
and  hood.  Then  she  slipped  the  sticks  and  the  letter 
into  her  pocket  and  set  forth. 

Jessop  had  said  that  he  would  obey  the  signal  by 
going  at  his  usual  time  to  "The  Meadows."  Well, 
she  would  go  somewhat  earlier  than  was  his  wont,  and 
she  doubted  not  that  she  should  meet  upon  the  way 
evidence  of  what  the  sign  meant. 

The  slim,  erect,  vigorous  young  figure  stepped  from 
the  low  portal  into  the  new-born  day.  Dawn  was  just 
brushing  aside  a  few  lingering  cobwebs  which  night 
had  woven  lightly  above  the  eastern  horizon.  The 
daily  resurrection  held  no  novelty  for  Joy;  but,  roused 
to  keener  seeing  by  the  trouble  in  her  soul,  its  hope 
and  beauty  thrilled  her  afresh.  The  little  listening 
world  of  cane  and  beech  and  magnolia  was  new  cre 
ated.  The  wing-tips  of  God's  angels  who  had  builded 
all  its  splendors  and  its  peace  had  but  just  vanished 
from  the  skies ;  the  breath  of  their  going  still  trembled 
fragrant  in  the  tree-tops. 

At  the  gate  she  stopped  an  instant  to  snood  her 
bright,  defiant  locks  more  snugly,  glancing  out  toward 
the  roadway  and  then  back  to  the  little  nestling  cabin. 
It  was  dark  with  the  stains  of  many  winters.  Its  great 
bark  logs  served  prettily  for  background,  and  about, 
on,  in,  and  under  them  twined  and  clambered  riotous 
honeysuckle.  Its  venturesome  trumpet-bells,  in  every 
shade  from  cream  to  yellow,  had  snared  a  myriad 
honey-bees  out  for  their  early  gathering.  From  the  tall 
locust  back  in  the  fowl-yard  came  the  warning  cluck 
of  one  of  Joy's  feathered  brood,  and  even  as  she  lin- 


MISTRESS  JOY  163 

gered  chicks  and  ducks  and  geese  began  their  matin 
calls. 

Satan  came  out  to  her,  purring  himself  into  a  gray 
ball,  his  green  eyes  blinking  lovingly  into  her  face. 
''Nay,  nay,  Satan,"  protested  Joy,  as  he  signified  his 
desire  to  accompany  her;  "I  fear  me  your  namesake 
hath  found  some  mischief  for  mine  idle  hands,  but  I 
must  e'en  go  to  it  alone." 

She  turned  toward  the  woodland  from  which  a  road 
way  led  to  "The  Meadows."  It  was  here  at  the  far 
ther  end  she  was  to  keep  Jessop's  tryst.  The  wood 
still  gloomed  beneath  the  uncertain  light.  Her  feet 
slipped  noiselessly  through  brown,  decaying  leaves 
dropped  months  ago  in  gold  and  crimson  glory  from 
autumn's  crowded  hands.  She  noted  an  occasional 
blue  eye  a-peep  from  earth's  dark  face,  and,  stooping, 
gathered  a  bunch  of  early  violets  which  she  grouped 
against  a  curved  heart-leaf  and  held,  scarce  conscious 
that  she  did  so,  to  her  lips.  Their  dewy  freshness  was 
grateful  to  her. 

About  the  dark,  shining  magnolias  spiders  had  set 
their  silver  wheels.  These,  interlooped  with  the  shad 
owy  Spanish  moss,  added  a  pallid  mystery  to  the  tall 
woodland.  Everywhere  dew  lay  like  a  sylvan  baptism. 
The  air  was  indescribably  fresh  and  spicy,  as  if  Dawn 
had  crushed  her  lips  to  earth  and  leaf  and  root,  and 
drawn  forth  their  richest  aroma  to  perfume  the  coming 
day.  Overhead  a  new-wakened  mocker  dropped  down 
a  trickle  of  song  to  saturate  the  girl's  uneasy  soul. 

She  looked  up  through  the  interlacing  boughs  and 
caught  the  deepened  blue  of  the  sky.  Great  ribbons 
of  sunlight,  dyed  in  purple  and  gold  and  crimson, 
streamed  and  knotted  about  the  east.  All  the  magic 
and  the  beauty  and  the  peace  sang  irresistibly  into  her 
fretted  spirit,  and  Joy  reached  the  grove  in  her  seren- 
est  mood. 


164  MISTRESS  JOY 

She  was,  though  of  course  she  could  not  know  it, 
somewhat  ahead  of  time.  She  walked  the  length  of 
the  grove  without  seeing  a  soul,  and  was  about  to  turn 
and  retrace  her  steps.  "I  was  mistaken,"  she  thought; 
"how  foolish  I  have  been !"  And  upon  the  instant,  the 
voice  of  Colonel  Burr  remarked  behind  her  shoulder : 
"You  are  early  abroad,  Mistress  Valentine,  and  look 
ing  as  fair  as  the  day-dawn  itself." 

For  answer,  Joyce  turned  silently  and  held  out  to 
him  the  two  little  twigs  bound  with  frayed  cord. 
"Why,  what  have  we  here?"  inquired  Burr,  taking 
and  inspecting  them  with  apparent  curiosity.  "Is  it  a 
sign  or  token  ?" 

"It  is,  Colonel  Burr,"  returned  Joyce.  "  'T  is  a 
sign  and  a  token  of  man's  treachery.  Ask  me  not  how 
I  know  of  this,  but  believe  me  that  I  do  know." 

Burr  looked  piercingly  at  the  girl.  His  estimate  of 
the  situation  was  that  Jessop  had  told  her  all  he  knew, 
and  that  she,  dominating  the  man,  as  the  stronger 
nature  always  does  the  weaker,  had  forced  him  to  re 
main  at  home  while  she  came  in  his  stead. 

Her  first  words  undeceived  him.  "I  ask  two  things 
of  you,  sir,"  she  said — "nay,  I  demand  them  of  you. 
One  is  that  you  do  not  tell  Master  Jessop  of  my  being 
here — I  shall  tell  him  myself.  The  other  is  that  you 
leave  him — poor,  weak,  tempted,  unhappy  gentleman — 
out  of  your  councils." 

"Why,  Mistress  Valentine,"  retorted  Burr,  "you  are 
none  too  modest  in  your  demands.  How  know  you 
that  we  have  councils,  or  that  to  be  in  them  is  not  best 
for  your  friend?  Your  lover  would  perhaps  be  the 
more  accurate  designation." 

Joyce  flushed  painfully,  but  she  stood  her  ground. 
"Will  you  deny,"  she  urged,  "that  you  sent  the  twigs, 
or  had  them  sent?  Can  you  say  that  I  am  mistaken? 
You  cannot.  Then,  pray  you,  leave  Master  Jessop 


MISTRESS   JOY  165 

alone.  No  good  can  come  of  this ;  't  is  a  secret  matter, 
something  of  which  you  are  ashamed,  of  which  you  are 
afraid  to  write  and  set  your  hand  to  the  writing,"  and 
she  glanced  down  at  the  sticks,  where  he  had  dropped 
them  in  the  mosses  by  the  path. 

Burr  saw  one  or  two  of  the  men  whom  he  had  asso 
ciated  with  him  in  his  secret  work  entering  the  grove 
on  their  way  to  the  rendezvous.  The  sight  spurred 
his  temper.  Joy  was  greatly  in  his  way.  "Look  you 
here,  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine,"  he  began,  "you  Meth 
odists  bear  the  name  of  being  meddling  folk;  and  I 
have  the  woman  yet  to  see  who  has  not  a  tattling 
tongue.  Let  this  matter  get  abroad  through  fault  of 
yours,  and  I  '11  find  means  to  settle  with  this  fine  gen 
tleman  lover." 

Joyce  was  all  courage ;  for  herself  she  was  not  afraid, 
she  dreaded  only  the  failure  of  her  mission.  "Colonel 
Burr,"  she  answered,  unscared,  "I  do  not  know  you  in 
such  guise  as  this.  I  do  believe  this  speech  belies  you, 
and  for  my  part  I  still  will  trust  you  so  far  that  if 
you  pledge  me  what  I  ask,  I  will  in  turn  give  you  my 
word  to  speak  of  this  matter  to  none." 

Burr  did  not  relish  being  worsted  by  a  girl.  Also 
he  had  need  of  Jessop. 

"Mistress  Valentine,"  he  said,  becoming  once  more 
the  winning  gentleman  and  charming  friend  whom  she 
had  formerly  known,  "I  crave  your  pardon  for  my 
hasty  words.  Come,  let  us  reason  together.  This 
man  Jessop  is,  in  point  of  fact,  according  to  the  best 
accounts  of  him,  a  profligate  fellow.  He  hath  lived  a 
life  of  debauchery  since  he  was  old  enough  to  choose 
for  himself,  and  run  through  such  fortune  as  he  was 
born  to.  What  hath  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine,  daugh 
ter  of  Pastor  Valentine,  to  do  with  such  a  man  as  that  ? 
What  hath  she  to  do  with  him,  I  ask  of  you?" 

"I  pray  you,"  interrupted  Joy,  unsteadily,  "forget 


166  MISTRESS  JOY 

that  I  am  a  woman,  and  a  young  woman.  Remember 
only  that  I  am  one  who  hath  been  called  to  preach  the 
Word.  Shall  a  soul  be  more  than  a  soul  to  me — or  less 
— because  it  be  lodged  in  the  body  of  a  man  ?" 

"Who  talks  of  saving  and  damning  souls  ?"  inquired 
Burr,  lightly.  "Why,  Mistress  Joyce,  this  is  the  sheer 
est  nonsense.  Men  have  oft  their  affairs  which  they 
do  not  tell  to  the  world  at  large,  their  secret  societies, 
their  intrigues  and  cabals.  'T  is  only  a  woman  whose 
life  must  be,  like  a  chained  book  in  a  temple,  open  to 
all  comers.  Nay,  I  '11  not  hurt  your  penitent's  soul. 
I  will  return  it  you  in  good  order.  You  have  not 
been  so  careful,  I  warrant  me,  of  his  heart." 

Joyce  sighed  impatiently.  "Will  you  give  me  your 
promise?"  she  persisted  doggedly. 

Burr  laughed,  and  owned  to  himself  that  he  was 
beaten.  "Why,  needs  must,  it  seems — needs  must, 
when  a  certain  personage,  who  shall  be  nameless, 
drives,  or  so  the  saying  goes.  You  leave  me  no  choice, 
I  think." 

.  The  sneering  lightness  of  the  promise  did  not  daunt 
Joy.  "And  will  you  keep  your  vow?"  she  asked — 
"keep  it  as  though  't  were  made  to  a  man?" 

At  the  frankness  of  her  words,  Burr  flushed  a  little. 
His  reputation  as  a  trifler  with  women  was  a  source 
of  pride  to  him ;  but  somehow  before  Joyce  Valentine's 
honest  eyes  the  thing  took  on,  momentarily,  another 
color.  "The  devil  even,  Mistress  Joy,"  he  remarked, 
"is  said  to  be  less  black  than  he  is  painted.  Believe 
or  believe  not  all  that  you  have  heard  of  me;  but  this 
one  thing  is  sure,  I  have  given  you  my  promise,  and 
you  may  trust  my  word." 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Joyce,  and  turned  away. 

This  girl  had  gone  in  fearless  innocency,  without 
conception  of  the  risk,  to  keep  tryst  at  day-dawn  with 
a  man  of  national  ill  repute  in  affairs  of  the  heart. 


MISTRESS  JOY  167 

She  had  not  come,  as  Burr  supposed,  counting  the  cost, 
and  willing  for  love's  sake  to  face  the  risk.  The  actu 
ating  motive,  inconceivable  to  him,  was  duty  to  a  soul 
she  felt  to  be  trembling  in  the  balance.  She  loved  the 
soul,  only  half  comprehending  that  the  man  was  grown 
most  dear  to  her. 

After  the  meeting  with  his  friends  in  the  grove, 
Burr  took  his  way  under  the  magnolias  to  the  hedge 
at  the  side  of  "Half-way  Cottage."  Here  he  paused, 
and  whistled  low  a  bird-call  of  two  or  three  soft,  slid 
ing  notes.  He  waited,  and  repeated  the  signal.  There 
was  a  movement  within  doors,  and  Mistress  Wilful 
Guion  first  pushed  aside  the  curtain  to  look  out,  then, 
opening  the  door,  came  swiftly  across  to  the  hedge. 
"Is  the  mother  awake?"  asked  Burr,  quietly. 

"No,"  she  returned,  in  the  same  hushed  tone,  "but 
you  will  breakfast  with  us,  will  you  not?" 

"Presently,"  said  Burr;  "now  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
Can  you  come  and  walk  awhile  under  the  trees?" 

Wilful  turned  back  to  give  some  directions  to  the 
servant,  brought  her  wide  garden  hat,  and  passed 
through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  in  submissive  silence.  It 
was  plain  her  attitude  toward  him  was  one  of  adoring 
obedience.  When  they  had  gone  some  little  distance 
he  turned,  drew  his  arm  closely  about  her,  and  kissed 
her — not  once,  but  many  times.  "There,"  he  said, 
"you  were  such  a  pale,  woe-begone  little  mustard-seed 
that  I  could  take  no  delight  in  you.  Now  you  are  a 
blushing  Hebe." 

The  girl  raised  to  his  a  glorified  face — a  face  so 
radiant  with  love  and  youth  and  beauty  that  one  could 
scarce  feel  surprise  if  even  he  was  momentarily  turned 
aside  by  its  spell  from  the  path  of  his  ambition.  Morn 
ing's  damp  wind  had  loosed  the  little  dusky  curls 
about  her  forehead.  Her  complexion  was  of  a  pecu 
liar  delicacy  most  unusual  with  dark  hair  and  eyes. 


168  MISTRESS  JOY 

Her  color  was  a  rich  carnation  stain  which  lends  that 
vivid  look — an  almost  hectic  beauty — which  old-fash 
ioned  people,  and  those  given  to  gloomy  prophesyings, 
declare  is  only  to  be  found  upon  faces  not  long  for 
this  world. 

Burr  looked  at  this  exquisite  creature  by  his  side, 
and  his  soul  was  melted  to  a  tenderness  quite  foreign 
to  the  cold,  ambitious  mold  of  the  man.  "And  now, 
my  Wilful  sweetheart,  did  they  discipline  you  for  going 
to  the  ball  all  for  to  please  this  ancient,  silvery-haired 
old  lover  of  yours?"  He  pushed  back  the  brown  locks 
on  his  temples,  inconspicuously  streaked  by  some  few 
silver  threads. 

"They  could  not  discipline  me,"  answered  poor  Wil 
ful,  somberly;  "I  have  gone  back  to  my  mother's 
church.  I  could  not  face  them." 

At  this  Burr  knitted  his  brows.  A  sweetheart  who 
went  to  confessional  was  not  to  his  taste.  "Why  did 
you  that?"  he  asked.  "Must  a  woman  always  have  a 
church?" 

"It  pleased  my  mother,"  replied  Wilful,  wearily; 
"and  for  myself,  I  did  not  care." 

"Why  do  it,  then  ?"  repeated  Burr. 

"You  do  not  object  to  it?"  she  inquired  anxiously. 
"I  thought,  since  you  were  not  satisfied  to  have  me  a 
Methodist,  you  would  be  glad  I  should  go  back." 

"Nay,"  demurred  Burr,  lightly,  "I  would  have  you 
to  have  no  church  but  that  of  which  I  am  priest;  no 
religion  but  that  which  still  finds  me  supreme.  Thou 
shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me,'  dear  heart." 

And  Wilful,  turning,  whispered,  his  arms  about  her 
and  her  face  pressed  in  against  his  breast,  "Sometimes 
I  think  I  have  not." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

[HE  Spanish  garrison  withdrew  from 
Fort  Rosalie  at  Natchez,  and,  join 
ing  the  troops  from  Fort  Nogales, 
went  on  down  the  river  to  New  Or 
leans  but  a  few  days  after  Joy's  in 
terview  with  Burr. 

Ellicott,  accused  by  his  enemies  of 
no  worse  than  being  to  the  Spaniards  "a  proper  play 
thing  suited  to  the  theme  of  evasion,"  was  informed 
one  night,  "through  a  confidential  channel,"  of  this 
proposed  evacuation.  He  arose  next  morning  at  four 
o'clock,  walked  to  the  fort,  and  found  the  last  party, 
or  rear-guard,  just  leaving  it.  Seeing  the  gate  open, 
he  went  in,  and,  as  he  rather  quaintly  puts  it,  "enjoyed 
from  the  parapet  the  pleasant  prospect  of  the  galleys 
and  boats  getting  under  way."  And  at  eight  o'clock 
Captain  Guion's  men  had  unfurled  the  American  flag 
over  the  fort. 

There  was  still  before  the  territory  a  factional  strug 
gle  between  its  own  "Little  Council"  and  "Permanent 
Committee."  All  conspiracies  to  sever  it  from  the 
United  States  had  failed.  Yet  it  appears  that  the  au 
thorities  must  have  gotten  some  wind  of  a  contem 
plated  "grand  coup,"  for  three  of  the  men  who  met 
with  Burr  that  morning  in  the  grove  were,  almost  di 
rectly  after  the  Spanish  evacuation,  arrested  upon 
United  States  warrants.  These  warrants,  it  is  true, 

169 


170  MISTRESS  JOY 

charged  them  with  various  offenses  and  none  specified 
conspiracy,  but  they  were  sent  to  Philadelphia  for  trial. 

Colonel  Burr  himself  appears  to  have  been  unsus 
pected  at  this  time,  and  he  followed  the  Spanish  gar 
rison  to  New  Orleans. 

The  explanation  seems  to  be  that  the  United  States 
occupation  and  the  appointment  of  Winthrop  Sargent 
as  governor  of  the  Mississippi  territory  came,  like 
all  long-delayed  things,  with  unexpected  suddenness. 
Burr's  plans  were  still  inchoate.  No  actual  move  was 
made,  and,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  the  man  at  the 
head  escaped  with  the  lightest  breath  of  suspicion, 
while  his  lieutenants  and  tools  suffered. 

Jessop  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  arrests. 
He  was  helping  Joyce  at  corn-shelling.  They  sat  at 
the  work  in  an  open  doorway  beneath  the  tender  efful 
gence  of  the  moon,  while  within  Father  Tobias,  by  a 
light  much  less  brilliant,  bent  over  his  books  and  papers. 
The  young  people  spoke  in  lowered  tones,  partly  that 
they  might  not  disturb  the  old  man  and  partly  with  a 
view  to  having  their  conversation  to  themselves. 

Joyce  mentioned  the  family  of  one  of  the  men  who 
had  been  arrested,  and  said  she  pitied  them. 

"They  are  shiftless  creatures,"  she  added,  "and,  I 
warrant  me,  will  be  upon  the  town  ere  poor  William  is 
released." 

"Know  you  the  real  cause  of  this  man's  arrest?" 
asked  Jessop. 

"I  believe  that  I  can  guess,"  returned  Joy. 

"  'T  was  for  attending  some  meetings,"  explained 
Jessop — "meetings  at  which  I  also  was  present.  Why 
I  should  have  been  left  when  others  were  taken,  is 
more  than  I  can  say."  Then,  after  a  thoughtful  pause  : 
"The  man  at  the  head  of  the  affair  is  left,  too.  He 
hath  gone  on  down  the  river  with  the  Spaniards." 

"Colonel  Burr,"  supplied  Joyce. 


MISTRESS   JOY  171 

"How  know  you?"  cried  Jessop,  in  astonishment. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  returned  Joy.  "And  methinks 
I  know,  too,  why  you  were  not  arrested.  Wait,  Mas 
ter  Jessop;  I  have  a  confession  to  make." 

She  ran  up  to  her  little  room,  and,  returning  with 
the  two  sticks  she  had  picked  up  and  brought  away 
from  her  interview  with  Burr,  laid  them  in  Jessop's 
hand.  "So  they  were  sent,  then,"  he  commented. 
"The  colonel  did  not  drop  me,  as  I  fancied.  Where 
got  you  these?" 

"They  were  brought  to  the  house,"  returned  Joyce, 
quietly,  "by  the  little  Indian  lad  Tohopeka,  and  I  kept 
them  from  you.  'T  was  the  night  you  stayed  at  Mas 
ter  Batchelor's  to  help  him  set  the  gin,  you  mind."  The 
remembrance  of  the  letter  he  had  sent,  and  which  she 
had  worn  with  many  foldings  and  unfoldings  and 
much  carrying  about,  till  it  was  breaking  at  the  creases 
— the  letter  which  even  then  lay  warm  above  her  heart 
— brought  a  soft  brightness  to  Joy's  face. 

"You  did  keep  them,  then — you  did  it!  Meseems 
that  at  the  time  we  had  some  talk  of  a  forfeit  for  such 
behavior.  Art  ready  to  pay  it  now,  mistress?"  He 
looked  laughingly  at  her.  Something  in  the  passionless 
kindness  of  the  girl's  aspect,  but  more  perhaps  in  that 
serious  feeling  toward  her  which  he  found  daily  grow 
ing  in  his  heart,  reproved  the  lightness  of  his  speech,  and 
made  him  forbear  further  reference  to  his  jesting  threat. 

It  was  not  Joy's  self  who  did  so,  for  even  as  she 
shook  her  head  in  negation  she  smiled  at  him  with 
something  of  that  indulgent  smile  a  mother  gives  a 
too  importunate  child. 

"  'T  would  seem  that  Colonel  Burr  was  easily  dis 
couraged,"  Jessop  went  on,  striking  the  sticks  together 
as  he  held  them.  "  'T  was  not  like  him  to  give  me  up 
because  I  failed  to  keep  an  appointment;  perchance  he 
cared  not  much  for  my  assistance." 


172  MISTRESS  JOY 

"That  is  not  all.  I  kept  the  sticks,  and  then  I  went 
and  spoke  to  Colonel  Burr  myself,"  confessed  Joy. 

"To  Burr?"  cried  Jessop,  turning  quite  about  to  face 
her.  "Why,  Joy!"  He  mused  a  moment.  "Colonel 
Burr,  if  I  mistake  not  the  man,  would  have  been  rough 
with  you  then,  and  taunted  you  with  appealing  to  him 
on  behalf  of  a  lover.  Is  not  that  what  he  said?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Joyce,  faintly,  "he  said  that,  and 
much  more.  But  he  promised  me  that  he  would  spare 
you,  and  he  did  spare  you,  so  I  was  content." 

Jessop  bent  his  head  and  looked  with  brooding  eyes 
at  the  corn-basket  between  his  knees.  All  the  worth 
of  this  which  she  had  done  for  him  was  bright  before 
his  eyes,  spread  upon  the  background  of  his  own 
doubtful  performances.  He  said :  "I  am  a  hound,  not 
worth  the  saving.  But  had  I  been  arrested  and  sent 
on  to  Philadelphia  for  trial  with  these  three  other 
scapegoats,  there  are  more  would  have  suffered  than 
my  unworthy  self  alone.  There  is  an  old  man  over 
in  England,  Joy ;  he  is  getting  very  old  and  feeble  now, 
and  he  hath  had  five  sons ;  three  of  them  be  dead,  and 
one  has  brought  him  naught  but  trouble." 

"Yourself,"  breathed  Joy. 

Jessop  nodded.  "Now,  had  this  thing  happened  to 
me  which  your  wit  and  kindness  hath  averted,  this  old 
man's  name,  his  honorable  name — it  is  a  very  great 
name,  dearest,  and  hath  come  down  to  him  unspotted 
for  nigh  a  thousand  years — his  name  and  mine  would 
have  been  dragged  through  the  mud,  in  the  courts  of 
this  little  twopenny-ha'penny  republic,  which  had  been 
glad,  methinks,  to  see  one  of  our  breed  so  humiliated." 

He  was  silent,  looking  at  her  seriously  and  consid 
eringly.  Surely  the  woman  who  had  saved  the  name 
from  disgrace  was  fit  to  bear  it.  "Joy,"  he  said,  in  a 
little,  hushed  undertone,  "will  you  marry  me?" 

He  had  been  so  occupied  with  his  own  point  of  view, 


MISTRESS  JOY  173 

so  concerned  with  the  thought  that  this  Methodist  par 
son's  daughter  was  no  mate  for  a  possible  heir  to  one 
of  the  oldest  titles  in  England,  that  he  was  quite  un 
prepared  for  her  reply.  It  came  upon  him  like  a  sud 
den  sousing  of  cold  water,  when  Joy's  sweet  face  went 
first  red,  then  white,  and  she  answered  in  a  voice  even 
lower  than  his  own : 

"I  don't  know — no.  Oh,  why  did  you  ask  me  that? 
You  are  of  the  world's  people,  and  I  have  my  life  con 
secrated  and  set  apart." 

Yet  when  he  rose  there  was  a  confident  smile  upon 
his  lips.  "We  will  talk  to  your  father  about  it,  Joyce," 
he  said  very  tenderly  and  kindly,  as  he  reached  his 
hand  to  raise  her  from  the  step. 

Thus,  hand  in  hand,  this  son  of  a  hundred  earls  and 
the  simple  backwoodsman's  daughter,  they  went  in  to 
gether,  and  stood  before  Father  Tobias  like  two  chil 
dren. 

The  old  man  looked  up  at  them  inquiringly,  took  off 
his  spectacles,  wiped  them,  put  them  on,  and  looked 
again.  Their  attitude  told  him  the  story,  and  a  world 
of  protest  showed  itself  in  his  usually  calm  face. 

"It  has  come,"  announced  Jessop,  still  smiling  a 
little — "the  time  which  comes  to  every  father — the  time 
when  you  must  give  her  up." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Father  Tobias,  gravely.  "How 
is  it,  my  Joy?" 

Joy's  face  was  burning  with  blushes.  "I  do  not 
know,  father,"  she  protested.  "I  would  have  you  to 
choose  for  me." 

"Nay,  child,"  returned  her  father ;  "that  is  what  one 
soul  may  not  do  for  another." 

Then,  turning  to  Jessop,  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  re 
proof  :  "I  think,  Master  Jessop,  you  do  not  indeed  want 
my  daughter.  Another  damsel,  who  was  fair  and 
young,  might  be  fitting  wife  for  a  worldly  man  like 


174  MISTRESS  JOY 

yourself;  but  this  child  here  is  not  as  other  women. 
She  hath  had  a  call  to  preach  the  Word.  I  feel  that  she 
belongs  to  God  and  to  her  own  people.  Indeed,  Mas 
ter  Jessop,  you  must  think  again." 

Jessop  had  been  hounded  through  two  London  sea 
sons  by  bold  young  beauties,  to  whom  his  wealth  and 
rank  made  him  a  coveted  quarry.  He  had  been,  more 
than  once,  well-nigh  run  to  earth  by  those  more  privi 
leged  scourers  of  the  field — mothers  and  aunts  of  dam 
sels  who  must  be  wed.  Opposition  from  this  unex 
pected  quarter  fanned  his  desire  for  Joyce  Valentine 
to  a  very  flame.  His  better  part  was  already  engaged 
in  the  matter,  and  now  the  reckless,  frivolous  side — 
the  side  that  brooked  no  opposition — answered  to  this 
challenge. 

He  told  Pastor  Valentine  of  his  birth  and  rank. 
His  father  was  Earl  of  Shropshire.  "But,"  he  added 
eagerly,  "I  am  a  younger  son,  and  a  black  sheep. 
There  is  naught  to  prevent  my  choosing  a  people  and 
a  land  of  my  own.  If  Joy  can  love  me,  my  family 
will — though  I  have  run  through  one  patrimony,  more 
shame  to  me ! — be  glad  to  provide  such  moneys  as  will 
here  give  us  ease,  even  luxury." 

Jessop  saw,  and  with  mounting  ardor,  that  these 
considerations  moved  Father  Tobias  and  Joyce  not  at 
all.  He  sought  other  argument.  He  urged  the  pas 
tor  to  think  what  good  might  be  accomplished  with 
this  wealth.  He  averred  that  he  would  not  stand  be 
tween  Joy  and  her  calling,  and  insisted  that  he  had  no 
thought  of  ever  living  elsewhere  than  in  the  Americas, 
or  being  other  than  a  plain  country  gentleman.  He 
doubted  not  that,  with  Joyce  to  guide  him,  he  should 
be  converted  and  eventually  join  the  Society. 

And  all  that  Father  Tobias  would  do  was  to  gently 
shake  his  obstinate  old  head  and  repeat:  "Well,  well, 
we  shall  see,  Master  Jessop.  We  will  take  time  to  con 
sider  these  things." 


MISTRESS  JOY  175 

The  day  following,  Jessop,  thwarted  and  unhappy, 
sulking  like  a  child  who  has  been  denied  a  new  toy, 
took  his  grievance  to  David  Batchelor.  David  heard 
him  through,  and  answered  with  great  moderation: 

"But  look  you,  Master  Jessop — I  shall  still  call  you 
so,  shall  I  not? — the  man  of  whom  you  think  so  hardly 
hath  but  one  daughter.  This  child  of  his  love,  the 
staff  of  his  declining  years,  you  expect  him  to  hand 
over  to  the  first  passing  stranger  who  desires  her,  and 
to  add,  'Thank  ye  kindly.'  "T  is  not  reasonable." 

Jessop  was  not  inclined  to  regard  himself  in  the  light 
of  an  ordinary  passer-by.  He  naturally  considered  that 
the  Earl  of  Shropshire's  son  was  a  very  fine  match  in 
deed  for  a  humble  Methodist  parson's  daughter,  and 
in  the  course  of  their  conversation  he  made  so  much 
clear  to  David. 

"Aye,"  said  Batchelor,  smilingly,  "why,  so  't  is. 
But  in  this  case  you  have  come  to  the  place  where 
neither  riches  nor  rank  will  avail  ye.  'T  is  as  though 
you  had  died  and  gone  to  heaven,  so  far  as  that  's 
concerned.  Pastor  Valentine  would  sooner  give  his 
daughter  to  you  to  wife  were  you  the  scum  of  the  earth, 
without  a  cent  in  your  pocket  or  a  second  coat  to  your 
back,  an  he  believed  you  one  of  the  Lord's  chosen." 

Over  these  statements  Jessop  swore  with  point  and 
fluency — the  more,  that  he  knew  them  to  be  exactly 
true. 

"Now,  Master  Jessop,"  added  the  other,  "Pastor 
Valentine  desires  to  see  me,  here  or  at  his  own  house, 
to  consult  me,  as  I  suspect,  upon  this  very  matter,  and 
I  shall  give  him  a  piece  of  advice  which  ought,  I  think, 
to  please  you." 

Jessop  was  moved  to  suggest  that  David  assure  Fa 
ther  Tobias  that  never  again  would  such  a  match  come 
Joy's  way.  But  he  forbore. 

David  concluded :  "I  believe  that  Mistress  Joy  hath 
that  in  her  which  would  be  the  making  of  a  great  lady." 


176  MISTRESS  JOY 

Jessop  agreed  warmly. 

"I  say,"  continued  Batchelor,  "that  I  think  the  world 
calls  her  strongly,  but  I  also  believe  that  Joyce  Valen 
tine's  spiritual  nature  will  never  be  satisfied  with  the 
things  of  the  world." 

"Pah — canting  humbug!"  fumed  Jessop;  "you  speak 
as  though  I  were  Sathanus  himself.  Why  should 
her  spiritual  growth  be  dwarfed  because  she  is  my 
wife?  Have  I  not  said  that  I  will  buy  a  plantation? 
She  may  preach  the  Word,  and,  for  aught  I  care, 
fill  the  house  from  garret  to  cellar  with  Methodies. 
'T  is  Joy  I  want.  For  her  sake  I  would  e'en  turn 
Methody  myself,  and  sing  psalms  through  my  nose 
with  the  best  of  them." 

"I  marvel  greatly,  Master  Jessop,"  cried  David, 
laughing,  "at  this  state  of  spiritual  exaltation  which  I 
find  in  you.  Methinks,  could  Pastor  Tobias  and  Mis 
tress  Joyce  hear  your  words,  the  maid  were  yours." 

Jessop  flushed.  "I  have  told  them  so,"  he  admitted, 
"but  not  exactly  in  those  words.  One  trims  one's 
speech  a  bit  when  courting." 

"And  after  marriage  't  is  no  such  matter,"  supplied 
Batchelor,  dryly.  "In  my  appreciation  of  this  fact, 
Master  Jessop,  I  shall  advise  my  old  friend  to  let  his 
daughter,  ere  you  be  wedded,  or  even  betrothed,  make 
experiment  of  this  worldly  life  into  which  she  would, 
as  your  wife,  inevitably  go.  Let  the  child  try  her 
wings,"  he  added  softly,  more  to  himself  than  to  the 
other.  "Perchance  she  will  come  back  to  the  nest  like 
a  homing  pigeon." 

"A  capital  idea.  Master  Batchelor!  Well  thought 
of!  'T  is  even  as  Father  Tobias  says;  you  are  a  man 
'excellent  in  counsel.'  I  have  a  cousin  in  New  York, 
wife  to  one  of  the  high  officials  there.  This  husband 
is  a  scurvy  fellow,  of  whom  we  have  thought  little  be 
cause  he  turned  against  his  country  in  the  rebellion  of 


MISTRESS  JOY  177 

the  colonies.  Yet  he  hath  money  and  standing,  and 
my  cousin  is  a  gentlewoman.  They  will  be  right  glad 
to  receive  Mistress  Joy  for  my  sake,  and  thus  patch, 
if  they  may,  the  breach  between  themselves  and  my 
family." 

"I  think,  Master  Jessop,"  amended  David,  ''that 
't  were  better,  as  there  is  to  be  no  promise  of  marriage, 
Mistress  Joyce  went  to  her  own  people.  Master  Val 
entine  never  mentions  the  fact — 't  is  not  known  in  this 
community — yet  his  brothers  are  men  of  wealth  as 
well  as  fine  breeding.  One,  an  elder  brother,  I  be 
lieve,  is  not  more  than  a  fortnight's  journey,  at  most, 
from  here." 

Jessop  looked  his  surprise.  "If  she  be  really  to  see 
the  world,"  he  suggested,  with  an  irrepressible  touch 
of  arrogance,  "methinks  't  were  better  she  went  to  a 
city — or  so  near  that  thing  as  there  is  in  this  uncouth 
land — and  lodge  with  people  of — of— 

"So  say  I,"  interrupted  David.  "And  surely  New 
Oilcans — 't  is  there  her  uncle  lives — is  wicked  enough 
for  the  purpose.  There  will  be  no  dearth  of  money. 
Master  Valentine  put  by  all  those  things  when  he  put 
by  the  world,  but  other  members  of  his  family  do  not 
lack  for  means." 

A  curious  change  had  come  over  Jessop's  face  dur 
ing  this  speech.  "Why  New  Orleans?"  he  inquired 
brusquely. 

"Why  not  New  Orleans?"  countered  David.  And 
the  other  was  at  a  loss  to  say. 

Both  men  turned,  as  they  reached  this  conversational 
deadlock,  and  saw  the  figure  of  Father  Tobias  coming 
up  the  pathway  toward  the  house.  Jessop,  with  his 
usual  delicacy,  withdrew,  that  the  others  might  speak 
more  freely.  David  had  chairs  brought,  and  they 
seated  themselves  on  the  wide  gallery. 

"Belike,  Master  Jessop  hath  told  you  the  nature  of 

12 


178  MISTRESS   JOY 

my  errand  this  morning,  friend  Batchelor,"  began  Fa 
ther  Tobias,  and  David  bowed  his  assent. 

"What  think  you?"  asked  the  elder  man,  wistfully. 
"Am  I  another  old  hen,  screaming  vainly  at  her  duck 
ling  in  the  pool,  and  fearing  for  it  mightily  because  she 
herself  was  not  born  to  swim?  Am  I  indeed  such 
an  old  hen,  or  is  this  not  a  strange  and  unsuitable 
match  ?" 

"Not  altogether.  No,"  returned  Batchelor,  thought 
fully.  "Bethink  you,  sir,  Mistress  Joyce  hath  a  many- 
sided  nature.  That  fervor  and  zeal  which  called  her  to 
the  speaking  of  the  Word  may  burn  full  as  brightly 
to  light  for  her  the  lamps  of  pleasure.  She  hath  de 
light  in  many  things  which  your  strait  creed  denies 
her." 

The  pastor  sighed.  "I  have  often  thought  so,"  he 
admitted.  "Yet,  after  all,  is  not  that  earnest  young 
Christian  who  would  be  indeed  a  daughter  to  me  the 
true  Joyce  ?" 

"I  think  it  is,"  agreed  the  other;  "but  unproved,  un 
tried  fealty  is  not  the  thing  which  you  or  I,  Master 
Valentine,  desire  to  see  in  your  daughter."  He  put 
before  her  father  his  plan  for  giving  Joy  an  opportunity 
to  see  the  things  of  the  world  and  test  herself,  going 
more  fully  into  details  than  he  had  done  with  Jes- 
sop.  At  the  end  of  all,  he  suggested  that  there  was  a 
fund  upon  which  the  pastor  had  been  used  to  draw  in 
cases  of  need,  and  which  was  now  quite  as  much  at  his 
service  to  provide  all  that  was  necessary  for  the  jour 
ney  and  the  visit. 

"I  think,"  he  concluded,  "that  both  you  and  I,  friend, 
are  able  to  see  your  daughter  go  into  the  world — if 
't  is  there  she  really  belongs — and  to  believe  that  God 
can  bless  her  wherever  she  goes.  I  know  that  we 
both  will  have  more  joy  in  it  if,  having  tried  the  things 
of  the  world,  she  freely  renounce  them,  as  you  and 


MISTRESS  JOY  179 

I  have  each  done,  and  come  back  to  her  simple  faith 
and  simple  life,  than  to  think  she  should  live  here, 
longing  perhaps  for  these  things  to  the  last,  though 
outwardly  holding  to  the  faith." 

''David  Batchelor,"  said  the  preacher,  "heaven  has 
denied  me  a  son  of  my  body.  But,  to  compensate 
therefor,  God  sent  me  you,  I  think,  as  the  son  of  my 
spirit." 

"If  you  follow  it,"  suggested  Batchelor,  much 
moved,  "I  doubt  not  that  this  advice  I  offer  will  sub 
ject  you  to  grave  criticism  from  the  Society." 

"In  nothing,"  returned  Father  Tobias,  "do  you  show 
your  spiritual  kinship  to  me  more  strongly  than  in  the 
knowing  that  such  consideration  would  not  weigh  with 
me.  This  maid  of  whom  we  speak  is  my  only  child. 
She  must  not  live  a  thwarted,  imperfect  life.  I  dare 
not,  at  this  turning-point,  risk  that  she  make,  through 
ignorance,  a  false  step ;  or  that,  held  ignorant  now,  she 
fall  hereafter  into  error." 

"And  whatever  comes  will  be  right,"  added  David, 
drawing  upon  the  wells  of  his  philosophy. 

"But  God  will  take  care  of  his  own,"  supplemented 
Father  Tobias,  peacefully.  His  comfort  came  from 
a  deeper  source.  "I  thank  you  for  the  proffer  of  the 
money,  my  son ;  it  will  be  necessary,  and  I  accept  it  as 
freely  as  't  is  offered." 

Here  Jessop,  who  was  too  full  of  restless  ferment  to 
work,  came  through  the  house  and  joined  them. 

He  had  sent  letters  to  England.  He  had  ordered, 
though  appearing  a  trifle  doubtful  of  results,  certain 
possessions  of  his  own  sent  up  the  river  to  him  from 
a  place  which  he  vaguely  designated  as  "below." 

Batchelor  watched  the  two  men  depart — Father  To 
bias,  always  impressive,  a  noble  and  touching  figure, 
yet  with  a  very  simple  dignity;  his  companion,  light, 
alert,  elegant,  fine  gentleman  from  the  crown  of  his 


180  MISTRESS  JOY 

head  to  the  sole  of  his  shoe,  graceful  always,  even  in 
rags.  As  David  studied  Jessop's  debonair  bearing,  and 
remembered  the  disfavor  with  which  the  proposition 
that  Joyce  go  to  New  Orleans  had  been  received  by 
him,  he  wondered  a  little  if  it  were  not  in  that  particu 
lar  city  that  this  handsome  young  prodigal's  last  meal 
of  husks  had  been  eaten.  The  words  of  Father  Tobias, 
who  had  said  to  him,  "I  hoped  she  might  have  chosen, 
nearer  home,  a  man  of  her  own  world,"  were  recalled 
to  David  by  the  contrast  between  the  two  figures — 
their  absolute  incongruity. 

And  again,  as  he  looked,  he  murmured,  "Why  not 
New  Orleans?" 


THE  WORLD 


CHAPTER  XVII 

[HE  big,  strong,  muddy  stream  which 
flows  past  these  river  towns  and  plan 
tations  of  Mississippi,  showing  its  an 
cient  contempt  for  the  puny  plans  of 
mankind  by  every  toss  of  its  ragged, 
tawny  mane,  furnishes  much  of  the 
romance,  the  song,  story,  and  legend, 
of  the  dwellers  on  its  banks.  And  at  the  last  they  find 
it  involved,  too,  in  most  of  the  practical  affairs  of  their 
lives. 

The  open  thoroughfare  which  first  allured  these  val 
iant  pioneers  into  this  wilderness,  it  remained  their 
line  of  communication  with  that  world  they  had  left 
behind  them.  It  carried  away  to  market  the  products 
of  their  labor,  and  brought  them  back  the  price  there 
for — along  with  somewhat  aged  news  of  the  world's 
doings. 

For  all  this,  the  shambling,  unreplying,  hostile,  ser 
viceable  creature  took  toll,  lawless,  irregular,  arbitrary. 
Now,  a  life — two  lives;  again,  a  boat,  with  its  hope 
ful  freight  of  goods  and  lives ;  or  a  broad,  rich,  profit 
able  slice  of  plantation,  with  lives  on  it  too,  mayhap,  all 
swallowed  up — boats,  merchandise,  plantation,  crops, 
and  lives — in  a  moment  of  the  day  or  of  the  night, 
indifferently. 

Down  this  great  primeval  highway,  sinister,  benefi 
cent,  set  thick  with  nature's  splendors,  bristling  with 
half-conjectured  robbers  and  slayers,  father  and  child 

183 


184  MISTRESS  JOY 

had  come  twelve  years  before.  And  now  once  more,  in 
late  March  and  early  April,  they  took  their  way  down 
the  stream  in  a  flat-boat,  going  back  to  and  not  away 
from  the  world. 

The  journey  to  New  Orleans  occupied  several  days, 
and  at  this  time  was  made  in  flat-boats  and  keel-boats. 
Men  who  could  endure  the  hardship  went  down  in 
their  canoes.  Planters  living  near  the  city  had  well- 
kept  skiffs,  with  gay  awnings,  whose  negro  oarsmen 
sang  as  they  rowed. 

The  river  banks  were  one  tangle  of  greenery  and 
bloom.  It  was  as  though  nature  had  trimmed  for 
Joy  a  royal  route  into  fairyland.  Great  tulip-trees 
hung  their  reversed  chalices  above  the  current.  Mon 
ster  live-oaks  and  sycamores  raised  shadowy  banners 
of  gray  moss.  An  occasional  orchard  or  inland  gar 
den  sent  messages  of  sweetness  out  to  the  voyagers  as 
they  passed.  The  dogwood  flung  a  white  flag  among 
the  darkness  of  the  beeches.  Garlands  of  the  yellow 
jessamine  flaunted  everywhere,  showering  largess  of 
scented  gold  upon  the  sliding  water. 

The  flat-boat  was  a  big,  rough  craft,  with  two  small 
cabins,  in  which  the  men  and  women  were  stowed 
away  like  documents  in  pigeonholes.  An  awning  of 
unbleached  cotton  cloth  furnished  some  protection  from 
the  sun. 

Joy  could  not  have  said  when  she  was  first  assailed 
by  a  stealthy  doubt  of  the  religious  dogmas  in  which 
she  had  been  born  and  reared.  It  came  thief-like,  and 
strove  secretly  to  steal  away  that  firm  belief  which  had 
been  to  her  thought  always  the  one  invincible  fastness 
of  her  soul.  Finally  she  began  to  dare  to  judge  the 
repression,  the  narrowness,  the  infinite  dreariness  of 
the  creed  by  which  her  Society  lived.  Antagonistic 
always  to  the  breadth  and  humanness,  the  sunny,  up- 
looking  hopefulness  of  the  girl's  rich  nature,  it  now  be- 


MISTRESS  JOY  185 

came  distasteful.  Yet  she  was,  from  force  of  habit, 
still  holding  to  the  doctrines  of  her  former  faith.  It 
was  the  one  bit  of  untruth  which  had  crept  into  Joyce 
Valentine's  sound  wholesomeness. 

The  tumult  of  their  preparations  had  left  her  little 
time  for  thought.  Whether  these  new,  unrestful  emo 
tions  which  possessed  her  were  pain  or  pleasure  was 
still  undetermined  in  her  mind. 

That  she  longed  to  see  the  world,  she  knew.  That 
she  loved  Jessop,  she  was  not  sure.  That  her  soul  was 
a  mirror  to  the  pageant  of  life's  beauty,  a  harp  to  the 
wind  of  its  pulsing  music,  an  empty  chalice  waiting  to 
be  brimmed  with  the  wine  of  its  pleasure,  she  was  be 
ginning  to  find  out. 

A  virgin,  grazed  by  the  wing  of  Love,  not  yet  quite 
enthralled  by  his  exigent  bondage,  is  apotheosized. 
She  becomes  a  poet,  a  musician,  a  bacchante,  a  saint. 
The  intoxication  of  actual  living  projects  her  fancy 
into  a  hundred  lives  other  than  her  own.  She  would 
fain  taste  all  waters,  that  she  may  judge  for  herself 
which  is  the  Water  of  Life. 

There  were  other  passengers  aboard  the  flat-boat, 
and  great  piles  of  merchandise.  Joyce  held  herself  a 
little  apart  from  the  rest,  and  took  counsel  of  her  own 
thoughts. 

There  was  an  old  French  Canadian,  going  for  the 
first  time  down  the  river  with  his  wife.  This  brown- 
faced,  quaint,  vivacious  old  fellow  was  so  charmed 
with  the  opulence  and  beauty  of  the  scenes  through 
which  they  drifted  that  he  harangued  Father  Tobias 
ceaselessly,  putting  forward  a  thousand  questions  and 
conjectures  expressing  unbounded  astonishment  and 
admiration. 

At  the  many  stopping-places  of  the  awkward  craft, 
negroes  and  Indians  came  down  to  trade  or  to  receive 
merchandise  intended  for  the  plantations  along  the 


186  MISTRESS   JOY 

route.  These  usually  carried  great  bundles  or  large 
reed-baskets  of  blossoms,  so  that  the  deck  of  the  flat- 
boat  was  soon  carpeted  like  a  royal  barge. 

Joyce  sat  at  the  forward  end, — that  which  would 
have  been  the  prow  had  there  been  a  prow  to  the  ves 
sel, — and  dreamily  watched  the  tardy  but  unwearied 
current  bear  the  boat  onward. 

Slow-moving,  mysterious,  impenetrable,  irresistible, 
it  seemed  to  her  like  fate.  She  began  to  realize  that 
we  do  not  consciously  choose  our  lives,  but  that  they 
are  an  outgrowth  of  ourselves ;  that  the  thistle  may  not 
elect  to  bear  figs,  nor  the  rose-tree  to  bring  forth  lilies. 
And  through  it  all  there  grew  upon  her  a  horror  of 
the  big  river,  a  nameless  terror  of  its  slow,  insolent 
urgency.  She  felt  that  it  was  bearing  her  on  to  a 
passage  of  life  for  which  she  was  not  prepared.  She 
knew  that  it  was  leaving  behind  and  between  her  and 
all  the  happy,  simple  past,  a  weltering  waste  which  she 
could  never  recross. 

The  long  voyage  gave  much  time  for  thought,  but 
Joyce  could  not  think ;  she  could  only  muse  and  dream 
and  wonder.  A  fat  little  Creole  on  the  boat — he 
scarcely  reached  her  shoulder,  and  she  was  serenely  un 
conscious  of  his  very  existence — brought  out  his  gui 
tar  and  sang  many  exceedingly  amorous  French  songs 
for  her  behoof,  all  supported  by  a  battery  of  killing 
glances,  with  windy  sighs  for  buglers. 

The  twanging  of  the  guitar  formed  a  background 
for  her  thoughts.  These  were  often  of  Jessop,  but 
oftener  of  the  new  life  to  which  she  was  going.  Jes 
sop  had  left  Natchez  before  themselves.  He  was  bound 
— or  so  they  understood — for  New  York,  where  he  had 
relatives,  and  he  would  return  to  meet  them  at  Natchez 
in  the  summer. 

Joy  wondered  idly  if  he  would  write  to  her,  and,  if 
so,  whether  his  letters  would  be  at  all  like  that  first 


MISTRESS  JOY  187 

one,  and  if,  amid  all  her  novel  surroundings,  she  should 
find  herself  so  changed  that  they  would  no  longer 
affect  her  as  had  that  first  love-letter. 

She  marveled  a  little  that  there  had  been,  in  the 
course  of  Jessop's  passionate  farewell,  nothing  said  of 
writing.  He  had  exacted  what  seemed  to  her  the  quite 
unnecessary  assurance  that  she  would  never  forget  him, 
that  she  would  not  learn  to  love  another;  but  he  had 
neither  asked  her  to  write  nor  promised  that  he  himself 
would  do  so. 

At  last  the  slow,  silent,  monotonous  voyage  was 
nearing  its  end.  Hour  by  hour  the  river  widened. 
Back  from  its  brown,  dull,  drifting  flood  swept  the  low 
marshes,  disked  with  stagnant  pools  of  overflow,  set 
with  fresh  green  grasses.  Reeds  swayed  to  the  murky 
current.  Cranes  and  curious  waterfowl  stood  or 
floated  near  the  bank,  while  numberless  birds  fluttered 
about  on  light  wings,  dipping  to  the  glassy  tide  in  the 
exuberant  joyousness  of  living — all  accorded  with  the 
clamoring  pulse  of  early  springtime  in  this  land  of 
warmth  and  light. 

On  the  eastern  bank  lay  that  city  which  to  both 
Father  Tobias  and  Joyce  had  been  a  sort  of  dream  city, 
full  of  the  mystery  of  the  unknown,  rich  in  the  charm 
of  something  wholly  different  from  all  their  even  lives 
had  hitherto  held. 

The  bare,  yellow  shore,  topped  by  a  few  shanties — 
Joyce  would  have  named  them  cabins — and  a  small 
crowd  of  loafing  idlers,  who  watched  with  lazy  curi 
osity  the  passengers  unload  from  the  rude  flat-boat — 
it  was  a  very  different  picture  from  the  bright,  gay, 
busy  place  of  her  imagination. 

It  was  noon  of  a  Sabbath  day.  The  deck-hands,  if 
one  may  use  this  term  in  speaking  of  a  craft  which  was 
all  deck,  dumped  our  travelers'  modest  luggage  on  the 
levee;  the  two  wayfarers  stood  beside  it,  bewildered. 


i88  MISTRESS  JOY 

There  was  no  crowd  of  vociferous  hackmen  to  scram 
ble  for  them  or  the  luggage;  but  presently  a  gigantic 
negro  in  white  cottonade  very  much  soiled  and  mud- 
bespattered,  with  a  great  whip  coiled  around  his  arm, 
sauntered  past  and  asked  in  strange  patois  if  they  de 
sired  a  dray.  They  replied  that  they  did;  the  trunks 
were  lifted  upon  the  small,  unsteady  vehicle,  the  ad 
dress  given  to  the  driver,  the  mule — sleepy  and  cynical, 
as  everything  else  appeared  to  Joyce  in  this  unsatis 
factory  realization  of  her  dreams — was  induced  to 
move,  and,  the  driver  running  beside  and  encourag 
ing  the  animal,  and  the  travelers  following  at  a  breath 
less  pace,  that  they  might  keep  their  property  in  view, 
the  caravan  started  for  Royal  Street. 

'Sieur  Henri  Valentine's  mansion,  a  fine  brick  struc 
ture,  was  built  eight  years  before  Joy's  memorable 
visit  and  two  years  after  the  great  fire  of  1778.  Stuc 
coed  and  painted  white,  to  Joy's  wondering  eyes  it  was 
a  marble  palace  in  a  fairy-tale.  The  main  entrance,  on 
Royal  Street,  displayed  a  great  arched  doorway,  deeply 
recessed,  its  wood-  and  iron-work  painted  white  like 
the  stucco.  But  here  a  lavish  use  of  gold  upon  the 
carving  added  a  sumptuous  touch. 

A  negro  in  livery  sat  inside  the  recess,  ready  to  open 
the  door  and  announce  the  guests.  As  Joy  and  Father 
Tobias  stepped  from  the  glare  of  the  street  into  the 
dusk  and  quiet  of  the  entrance-hall,  the  girl's  heart 
began  to  mount  with  pleasurable  excitement. 

When  once  he  had  ushered  them  in,  the  negro  ap 
peared  to  find  them  much  in  his  way.  All  aristocratic 
New  Orleans  then,  as  now,  slept  through  the  hot  hours 
of  early  afternoon.  To  disturb  the  siesta  of  his  mas 
ter  and  mistress  or  the  young  demoiselles  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  Suddenly  he  had  an  inspiration.  He 
would  take  these  people — who  did  not  look  like  any  of 
the  quality  to  whom  he  was  used,  and  who  were  still 


MISTRESS   JOY  189 

certainly  not  common  people — up  to  the  drawing-room 
and  call  Celeste.  Celeste  would  know  what  to  do; 
Celeste  knew  everything.  Pursuant  to  this  plan,  they 
were  led  up  the  winding  iron  stair,  with  its  beautiful 
foliated  balustrading. 

The  immense  drawing-rooms,  answering  for  ball 
rooms  as  well,  were  decorated  and  furnished  in  the 
French  fashion.  The  panels,  the  fluted  columns,  the 
lofty  ceilings,  the  profusion  of  gilding  and  mirrors,  all 
this  dazzled  Joy's  eyes,  as  well  it  might,  for  she  was 
looking  at  an  excellent  example  of  Louis  Quinze  deco 
rations  and  fittings,  called  then  the  finest  in  the  city, 
and  therefore  the  finest  outside  of  France.  She  turned 
to  her  father  confidently,  to  share  her  pleasure  with 
him. 

"It  is  very  beautiful,  my  Joy,"  he  said,  a  little  wist 
fully;  "almost  as  beautiful  as  the  grove  near  our  cabin 
when  spring  first  sets  the  flowers  to  blossoming."  And 
then  they  laughed  a  little,  seeing  that  Father  Tobias 
had  arrayed  the  old,  simple  life  against  the  glories  of 
this  new  existence. 

"They  are  both  very  beautiful,"  urged  Joyce.  "Can 
not  one  love  them  both  ?" 

A  very  light  step — the  whisper  of  a  step — caused 
them  to  turn.  A  tall  negress,  slender,  almost  fragile- 
looking,  with  thin,  patrician  features,  in  spite  of  her 
brown  skin,  and  with  eyes  like  wells  of  black  sun 
light — if  sunlight  could  ever  be  black — was  approach 
ing  from  the  doorway.  She  was  dressed  entirely  in 
white,  her  hair  was  covered  with  a  great  white  tignon, 
shining  hoops  of  gold  were  in  her  delicate  ears.  She 
was  shod  with  thin  and  heelless  slippers,  and  her  slim, 
brown  hands  had  the  capable  look  which  means  execu 
tive  ability.  This  was  Celeste,  the  mainstay  of  the 
household,  at  times  dictator  and  despot. 

She  raised  those  capable,  slim  hands  now  in  astonish- 


i9o  MISTRESS  JOY 

ment,  and,  speaking  in  French,  cried :  "It  is  indeed  the 
brother  of  'Sieur  Valentine!  How  like — how  very 
like  to  master !  And  this  is  the  blooming  daughter ! 
The  household  sleeps,  and  Celeste  will  take  you  to  your 
rooms,  that  you  may  repose  yourselves  after  your 
weary  journey." 

All  this,  uttered  softly  in  the  clear,  sliding  Creole 
French,  was  but  half  intelligible  to  Joyce.  Father  To 
bias  understood  enough  of  it  to  know  that  they  were 
bidden  to  go  somewhere  for  rest  and  refreshment.  So 
they  followed,  Joy  after  Celeste  and  Father  Tobias 
after  a  negro  man  summoned  for  the  purpose,  to  what 
appeared  to  them  very  sumptuous  rooms. 

Celeste  departed  at  once,  leaving  Joy  alone  in  hers, 
and  returned  with  a  young  negress  whom  she  called 
Zette.  This  girl,  she  informed  Joy,  was  to  be  her  own 
maid,  to  attend  on  her  in  the  daytime  and  to  sleep 
across  her  door  at  night. 

Left  alone  with  Zette,  Joy  was  a  little  puzzled  as  to 
what  might  come  next.  But  Zette  knew  her  duties  too 
well  to  need  prompting.  Dropping  at  her  demoiselle's 
feet,  she  began  removing  the  shoes.  Joy  was  helpless 
in  the  matter,  as  the  girl  only  half  understood  the 
French  in  which  she  addressed  her. 

The  shoes  once  off,  she  brought  fresh  water,  basin, 
and  towel,  and  laved  Joy's  feet,  slipping  them  finally 
into  a  pair  of  gay  silken  mules  procured  for  the  pur 
pose.  This  done,  she  loosened  Joy's  abundant  hair 
from  the  pins  which  confined  it,  exclaiming  as  she  did 
so  over  its  beauty  and  length,  and  proceeded  to  brush 
it  out  with  a  long,  rhythmic,  practised  stroke  which  was 
very  soothing. 

When  its  brightness  was  all  braided  up  in  two  long 
plaits,  the  inexhaustible  Zette  presented  a  daintily  em 
broidered  camisole.  "Would  mam'selle  sleep  now? 
She  must  be  very  weary." 


MISTRESS  JOY  191 

Father  Tobias  had  never  employed  such  disciplinary 
measures,  but  Joyce  remembered  somewhat  humorously 
that  Sister  Loving  Longanecker  had  been  used,  all 
through  her  timid  childhood,  to  putting  Patience  to 
bed  at  noonday  for  the  smallest  offenses.  The  recol 
lection  inclined  her  to  laugh,  but,  having  no  one  to 
laugh  with,  she  meekly  donned  the  camisole  and  lay 
down  upon  the  couch — to  dream,  if  not  to  sleep.  She 
was  yet  to  learn  that  one  of  the  strangest  things  in 
this  strange,  new  life  of  hers  was  that  she  was  expected 
to  be  always  tired,  always  in  need  of  rest. 

Intent  upon  being  obedient  and  not  breaking  in  on 
the  customs  of  the  household,  Joy  lay  so  long  staring 
at  the  blue,  blue  sky  and  the  green  tops  of  the  mag 
nolias  against  it,  inhaling  the  mingled  rose,  magnolia 
fuscati  and  jasmine  odors  which  wooed  her  through 
the  window,  that  she  was  finally  aware  of  a  little  soft 
sound,  like  a  giggle  behind  her.  She  turned  upon  her 
couch,  and  saw  two  pairs  of  very  bright  eyes  regarding 
her  from  the  doorway. 

When  the  two  owners  of  these  eyes  saw  that  she 
was  awake,  they  rushed  in  and  attacked  her,  apparently 
from  all  sides.  She  was  hugged,  caressed,  told  that 
she  was  beautiful  as  a  flower,  smothered  with  flutter 
ing  scarfs  and  flying  ringlets  till  she  scarcely  knew 
whether  she  was  Joyce  Valentine  or  no.  When  the 
riot  settled  down  somewhat,  she  found  two  very  slim, 
very  dark,  very  pretty,  eager,  bright  young  girls  sitting 
beside  her  on  the  couch. 

"Sit  thee  up,  dear,  delightful,  beautiful  thing,  and  let 
us  look  at  thee!"  cried  the  elder  and  quieter,  who  had 
introduced  herself  as  Cousin  Madeleine.  "Ausite,  be 
hold  those  lashes.  Didst  ever  see  any  so  long,  so 
heart-breaking?" 

Ausite,  appealed  to,  pounced  upon  the  astonished 
Joy  and  kissed  the  apostrophized  eyelashes,  first  one  eye 


i92  MISTRESS  JOY 

and  then  the  other.  "Methinks  there  never,  never  was 
anything  so  charming,"  she  cried,  and  then,  with  a 
sudden  spreading  abroad  of  her  pretty  little  hands  and 
an  indescribable  widening  of  her  clear,  dark  eyes : 
"There  's  so-o-o  much  of  her!  She  's  a  banqueet  of 
beautee." 

Joyce  did  indeed  look  of  heroic  mold  beside  her  slim, 
dark,  restless  cousins,  whose  lips  and  hands  and  eyes 
were  never  still.  They  caressed  her,  they  chattered, 
till  presently  Madeleine  arose,  with  a  little  shriek  and 
an  explosion  of  Creole  French  which  included  "Maman 
— diner!" 

The  absent  Zette  was  hastily  recalled,  and,  both  girls 
assisting — or  hindering — Joy's  toilet  was  made.  She 
was  then  conducted  to  Maman's  room,  to  be  presented 
before  the  afternoon  meal. 

Joy's  one  trunk  had  been  brought  up  and  unfastened 
by  the  servants.  She  had  expected  to  purchase  most 
of  her  wardrobe  in  New  Orleans.  Now,  upon  going 
to  select  something  for  wear  in  her  uncle's  house  this 
first  day,  she  found  but  one  gown  suited  to  the  pur 
pose,  and  that  a  white  muslin — her  best — bought  after 
the  trip  to  New  Orleans  was  decided  upon.  It  was 
made  after  the  model  of  one  of  Wilful  Guion's  frocks, 
and,  though  short-waisted  and  scant  of  skirt,  was  not 
so  much  amiss.  But  there  was  no  one  other  garment 
in  the  trunk  in  which  Joy  felt  she  could  properly  appear. 

Joy  found  her  uncle's  wife,  her  new  "tante,"  as  she 
was  bidden  to  call  her,  an  enlarged  edition  of  the 
daughters,  but  very  fat  and,  in  spite  of  her  vivacity, 
very  languid.  She  kissed  Joy  with  the  kindest  affec 
tion,  and  looked  her  over,  beaming  with  satisfaction. 

"Why,  't  is  a  young  beauty  Brother  Toby  hath 
brought  me  from  the  wilderness.  And,  oh,  me !"  with 
a  little  sigh,  "beauties  are  such  a  responsibility."  As 
the  mother  of  sons,  she  was  wary  of  beauties. 


MISTRESS  JOY  193 

Joyce  blushed  rosily.  "Indeed,  maclame — "  "Ma 
tante,"  supplied  Madame  Valentine,  promptly.  "In 
deed,  ma  tante,"  corrected  Joyce,  "I  have  ne'er  been 
considered  so  fair.  If  I  can  but  be  good  and  please 
you  thus,  I  shall  be  satisfied/' 

Madame  Valentine's  fine  eyes  interrogated  the  ceil 
ing.  "Listen  to  the  young  saint!"  she  cried.  "Why 
do  my  girls  never  talk  like  that?" 

But  Ausite  pouted.  "Nobody  looks  for  virtues  in 
a  pretty  woman,"  she  said.  "The  ugly  ones  have  no 
choice  but  to  behave  themselves." 

"You  sinful,  wicked  girl,"  reproved  Maman,  with 
apparent  severity.  "You  should  say  at  least  a  dozen 
Paternosters  for  that,  and  mind  you  don't  forget  it 
when  you  go  to  confession.  Such  light  speech  is  sin." 

For  the  first  time  Joyce  realized  fully  that  these 
relatives  of  hers  were  Catholics,  and  understood  what 
had  set  such  a  gulf  between  Father  Tobias  and  his 
brother's  family. 

The  dining-table  looked  to  the  inexperienced  girl 
magnificent.  The  silver  was  massive,  the  china  ex 
quisite,  and  the  service  perfect ;  for  Madame  Valentine 
was,'  with  all  her  languor,  an  exceptional  housewife. 

In  the  dining-room  two  more  cousins  were  presented 
to  Joyce.  One  of  these  was  a  tall  young  officer,  Cap 
tain  Luis  Le  Blanc  Valentine,  who  drew  his  heels 
together,  made  her  the  most  military  of  bows,  and  then 
bent  and  kissed  her  hand  after  the  approved  fashion 
of  the  times.  The  other  was  a  boy  of  sixteen,  so  like 
his  mother  that  the  resemblance  was  almost  comical. 
His  short,  arched  upper  lip  showed  the  first  darkening 
of  a  manly  down;  but  in  each  round,  olive  cheek, 
smooth  as  a  baby's,  there  was  a  deep  dimple  which 
played  at  hide  and  seek  as  he  laughed  or  talked.  Joy 
felt  herself  drawn  to  this  boy  at  once,  sweetly  and  ten 
derly.  His  very  large,  clear,  dark  eyes  had  a  look  as 
13 


194  MISTRESS   JOY 

though  there  were  a  lamp  behind  them — a  spiritual 
light — and  his  white  teeth  were  always  flashing  in 
smiles. 

Joyce  found  her  uncle  to  be  a  big,  genial,  material 
version  of  Father  Tobias.  Celeste  was  correct  in  her 
estimate  of  the  resemblance  between  them.  He  took 
his  young  relative  into  a  bearish  embrace. 

"God  bless  my  soul,  but  you  're  a  beauty!  Just 
what  your  mother  was  at  your  age,"  he  cried,  kissing 
her  heartily  on  both  cheeks,  while  the  young  captain 
looked  enviously  on.  "Ah,  Toby,  Toby,  she  minds 
me  of  the  milk-and-roses  English  lasses.  Our  dark 
beauties  here  will  be  quite  outshone." 

And  the  girl  wondered  to  hear,  for  the  fourth  time 
since  she  entered  that  house,  the  question  of  beauty 
given  such  prominence.  It  was  one  which  up  to  this 
time  she  had  never  debated,  and  the  importance  which 
it  appeared  to  have  in  the  estimation  of  her  uncle's  fam 
ily  quite  astonished  her.  She  considered  seriously 
whether  or  no  she  were  really  beautiful,  and  if  other 
people  than  these  kind  relatives  of  hers  would  find 
her  so. 

Father  Toby  was  away  from  her,  across  quite  a  sea 
of  linen  and  silver  and  flowers;  but  her  native  fine 
ness  prevented  embarrassment,  since  she  never  thought 
at  all  of  any  special  etiquette  pertaining  to  table  ser 
vice.  And  contrasting  her  gentle,  unworldly  old  fa 
ther  with  her  uncle,  she  felt  no  shame,  but  a  distinct 
pride  in  his  simple  good  breeding. 

That  first  night,  before  Joy  slept,  madame  came  in 
to  see  that  she  had  everything  for  her  comfort.  Fa 
ther  Tobias  was  going  home  on  the  following  day,  and 
Joyce  handed  the  purse  which  contained  all  her  money 
to  Madame  Valentine. 

"I  shall  want  a  great  many  things,  of  course,  which 
I  never  needed  at  home,"  she  began  frankly.  "Indeed, 


MISTRESS  JOY  195 

tante,  I  have  but  the  one  frock  which  is  fitting  for  my 
wear  here.  'T  were  better  you  bought  for  me — or  tell 
me  what  to  buy — for  I  see  I  know  scarce  anything 
about  it  all." 

Madame  Valentine  took  the  purse,  kissed  her  niece, 
and  assured  her  that  the  wardrobe  would  all  be  pro 
vided  in  good  time.  "When  a  demoiselle  is  as  pretty 
as  you  are,  ma  petite,"  she  said  affectionately,  "pretty 
things  belong  to  her  by  right,  and  everybody  sees  that 
she  gets  them.  My  naughty  Luis,  who  is  a  great  flirt 
and  hath  the  name  of  breaking  more  hearts  than  any 
gallant  in  town — the  wicked  fellow ! — is  already  sigh 
ing  for  you  and  dying  for  you.  But  I  have  warned 
him  that  you  are  not  a  frivolous  girl,  such  as  those  to 
whom  he  is  used,  but  a  very  earnest  young  saint,  and 
that  he  must  let  you  alone." 

"I  thought  my  Cousin  Luis  very  handsome,"  re 
turned  Joy,  proffering  the  commendation  so  current  in 
this  household.  "All  of  my  cousins  are  handsome,  but 
the  youngest  one,  Neville,  pleased  me,  I  believe,  most 
of  any." 

"Ah,"  smiled  Madame  Valentine,  with  evident  satis 
faction,  "I  call  Neville  the  baby  because  he  is  the  last 
boy  out  of  the  nursery,  and  he  is  a  dear  child." 

"Have  you  other  children,  tante?"  asked  Joy,  in 
wonderment.  The  house  was  so  large,  the  company 
so  numerous,  and  servants  so  swarmed  everywhere 
that  she  had  failed  to  gather  any  hint  of  more  family 
than  appeared  at  dinner. 

"Any  more  children?"  cried  Madame  Valentine, 
with  a  little  shriek,  and  she  added,  with  her  comfort 
able  laugh :  "Loads  of  them,  sweetheart.  I  know  not 
how  many,  because  we  count  them  only  on  high  days 
and  holidays,  or  when  there  is  a  family  fete." 

When  Joyce  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow  it  was  to 
dream  not  of  Jessop  nor  even  of  her  new  cousins,  but 


196  MISTRESS  JOY 

of  sundry  frills  and  frivols  which  she  much  desired 
to  have,  that  she  might  appear  like  other  young  maids. 
And  her  last  waking  thought  was  in  regard  to  that 
curious  valuation  which  her  new  relatives  seemed  to 
set  upon  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


Convent  of  the  Three  Sorrows  was 
a  small,  shabby  building,  on  one  of 
the  less  desirable  streets  of  New  Or 
leans.  The  sisterhood  was  vowed  to 
poverty,  and  a  little  hospital,  sup 
ported  by  voluntary  contributions, 
gave  occupation  to  the  nuns. 
In  the  fall  of  1798  came  to  this  humble  convent  a 
rather  curious  consignment,  in  the  person  of  a  small 
black  girl,  perhaps  ten  years  of  age,  clad  in  a  costly 
and  elegant  costume  many  sizes  too  large  for  her,  the 
great  sleeves  pinned  up  on  her  thin,  little  arms,  the 
multitudinously  flounced  skirt  festooned  to  escape  the 
floor.  Also  there  was  a  personal  attendant,  a  gigantic 
negress  called  Zoombi,  who  wore  great  barbaric  cres 
cents  of  gold  in  her  ears  and  a  most  imposing  tignon 
on  the  top  of  her  tall  head. 

This  child  was  the  daughter  of  a  king  and  hight  the 
Princess  Lalla. 

Her  father  was  one  of  those  who  from  time  to  time 
have  seized  and  held  brief  control  of  a  West  Indian 
island.  And  this  man,  when  he  thought  his  hold  was 
sufficiently  secure  to  venture  upon  displaying  the  ne 
gro's  love  of  pomp  and  title,  proclaimed  himself  king, 
and  ruled  his  sorry  little  kingdom  with  a  strong  and 
bloody  hand. 

This,  his  only  child,  was  sent  to  New  Orleans  to  be 
educated  for  those  dignities  and  duties  which  he  in- 

197 


198  MISTRESS   JOY 

tended  should  be  presently  hers.  He  was  making  a 
barbarian's  overtures  to  England.  His  daughter  had 
been  taught  good  English,  she  spoke  French  quite  as 
well,  and  Spanish  was  mainly  the  language  of  the 
island.  With  the  distrust  and  suspiciousness  of  an 
ignorant  half -savage,  the  man  desired  to  have  about 
him  an  interpreter  of  his  own  blood. 

Despite  the  smallness  and  poverty  of  his  kingdom, 
there  was  plenty  of  money  to  spend  for  this  purpose. 
His  emissary  was  an  American-born  mulatto  who,  find 
ing  it  impossible  to  place  a  negress — even  though  a 
princess — in  any  school  attended  by  white  children, 
picked  out  an  obscure  convent  whose  nuns  were  nurs 
ing  sisters,  not  teachers. 

After  much  persuasion,  these  sisters  agreed  to  per 
mit  Broutin,  as  the  mulatto  styled  himself,  to  fit  up  in 
the  convent  a  suite  of  rooms,  which  he  furnished  and 
decorated  in  a  most  flamboyant  style. 

A  great  price  was  paid  for  the  maintenance  and  tui 
tion  of  the  princess,  and  there  were  many  stipulations, 
not  only  in  regard  to  the  royal  well-being,  but  to  the 
observation  of  that  state  and  etiquette  which  befitted 
her  rank. 

Zoombi  was  the  tiring-woman.  It  was  her  humble 
office,  and  one  which  she  performed  to  the  satisfaction 
of  both  parties,  to  endue  the  royal  person  with  the 
astonishing  accoutrement  of  Lai's  own  choosing. 

The  great,  gaunt,  savage-looking  creature  waited 
upon  her  small  charge  hand  and  foot,  fanned  her  with  a 
fan  of  shining  peacock  feathers,  carried  about  a  rug 
and  footstool,  stood  always  behind  her  chair  when  she 
sat,  and  walked  a  pace  or  two  behind  her  when  she 
walked. 

Sister  Angelina,  who  was  held  to  be  prodigiously 
learned,  was  the  royal  instructor,  and  she  taught  this 
most  profitable  pupil  conscientiously. 


MISTRESS  JOY  199 

On  a  Saturday  the  attendant  was  allowed,  if  the 
princess  desired,  to  conduct  her  royal  charge  into  the 
city.  If  the  day  were  warm,  the  big  negress  always 
carried  a  broad,  red  umbrella  over  her  mistress,  and 
though  it  was  very  difficult  to  do  this  and  continue  to 
walk  behind  her  highness,  Zoombi's  diligent  humility 
managed  to  compass  it. 

The  little  black  royalty,  in  her  resplendent  attire, 
her  tall,  grim-visaged  servitor  clad  in  speckless  white 
cottonade,  the  turban  which  topped  her  head  a  thing 
to  muse  upon — it  was  a  procession  which  might  have 
marched,  complete,  from  between  the  covers  of  some 
old  Eastern  volume,  and  the  quaint  humor  of  its  in 
congruity  was  not  lost  upon  the  laughter-loving 
Creoles. 

New  Orleans  was  even  then  a  considerable  city,  and 
yet  the  peculiarities  of  its  arrangement,  still  so  marked 
among  the  towns  of  this  country,  made  it  appear  less 
of  a  city  than  it  really  was. 

The  houses,  showing  from  the  street  only  low,  pink- 
plastered  facades,  proved — the  portal  once  passed,  or 
even  the  courtyard  entered — to  be  homes  of  a  beauty 
and  elegance  which  in  many  cases  approached  mag 
nificence.  Built  around  courts,  in  which  were  foun 
tains  and  a  profusion  of  flowers,  native  and  exotic, 
were  balconies  covered  with  monster  vines  of  bloom 
ing  roses  brought  from  France.  These  homes  were 
unique  in  America,  and,  indeed,  in  beauty  and  charm, 
were  not  elsewhere  surpassed. 

Ten  years  before,  in  1788,  the  core  of  the  city  was 
bitten  out  by  a  great  fire,  which  left  a  bare,  blackened 
waste  for  a  heart-broken  populace  to  rebuild.  This 
disaster  proved,  however,  a  disguised  blessing  to  the 
town.  The  buildings  destroyed  were  largely  one-story 
wooden  structures,  and  most  of  the  magnificence  of  the 
New  Orleans  of  a  hundred  years  ago — which  is  the 


200  MISTRESS   JOY 

French  quarter  of  the  modern  city — dates  from  the 
rebuilding  of  this  burned  district. 

The  little  wooden  structures  were  succeeded  by  edi 
fices  of  brick,  stuccoed.  Spanish  models  were  gen 
erally  followed — the  city,  be  it  remembered,  was  still 
under  Spanish  sway — and  there  prevailed  in  the  archi 
tecture  an  amplitude  and  elegance  which  have  scarce 
been  exceeded  since. 

The  destroyed  public  buildings  were  renewed  by  Don 
Andreas  Almonester  and  Alferez  Real.  At  this  time 
was  built  the  old  cathedral  still  called  for  the  don,  its 
giver.  Under  its  altar  his  dust  is  laid,  and  there  each 
day  at  vespers  a  prayer  is  still  said  for  the  repose  of 
his  soul. 

The  stores  of  the  day  were  small  and  unpretentious. 
But  in  these  little  shops  were  vended,  at  fat  prices 
never  questioned,  the  most  magnificent  fabrics,  the 
costliest  silks,  laces,  tissues,  shell,  and  ivories  that  Paris 
could  supply.  It  was  a  rich  field,  and  from  their  ex 
peditions  the  princess  and  her  retainer  brought  back 
wonderful  spoil. 

Lalla  always  bought  till  the  big,  purple-silk,  bead- 
fringed  money-pouch,  which  hung  ever  at  Zoombi's 
girdle,  was  limp  and  empty.  Her  purchases  gave  no 
tice  of  a  truly  royal  disregard  for  the  humble  detail 
of  mere  fitness.  The  sovereign  caprice  lit,  not  improb 
ably,  upon  a  gorgeous  tobacco-pouch,  a  gentleman's 
lace  cravat,  a  tinseled  bolero  intended  for  the  wear  of 
some  Spanish  caballero.  And  she  wore  her  inappro 
priate  purchases  with  a  most  appropriate  gravity  and 
decorum. 

The  Princess  Lai's  first  school  term  was  drawing 
toward  its  close.  With  the  pride  of  voluntary  dili 
gence  and  that  silent  singleness  of  purpose  which  the 
child  showed  in  the  conduct  of  her  affairs,  she  had  ap 
plied  herself  to  learn.  And  always,  between  the  les- 


MISTRESS   JOY  201 

son  hours,  she  studied  in  significant  silence  the  little 
migratory  tribes  which  ran  and  laughed  and  played,  in 
vulgar,  unfettered,  irresponsible  bliss,  in  the  street  be 
fore  the  convent,  reflecting  austerely  that  they  were 
born  to  be  common  people,  subjects,  and  she  a  queen 
ruler  over  such. 

Bred  in  a  community  where  a  white  face  was  rare, 
familiar  with  the  arrogant  display  of  new-gotten  power, 
the  question  of  race,  of  color,  did  not  then  present 
itself  to  Lalla,  or,  if  considered  at  all,  did  not  assume 
that  ultimate  importance  which,  as  she  was  later  to 
learn,  attached  to  it.  Looking  upon  these  children, 
she  told  herself  that,  so  high  as  her  lot  was  above 
theirs,  just  so  far  must  she  excel  them  in  every  way. 

Unlike  most  negroes,  she  had  an  aptitude  for  learn 
ing  which  felt  no  hardship  in  study.  Instead,  it  sup 
plied  companionship  and  solace  to  this  self-imposed 
loneliness.  But  as  the  season  advanced,  and  birds, 
trees,  and  flowers  all  brought  more  and  more  to  her 
memory  the  warm,  laughing,  joyful  summer  of  her 
tropical  home,  nobody  knew  how  heavy  Lai's  heart  was 
with  that  passionate  homesickness  which  spring  always 
brings  to  the  exile. 

In  the  open  door  of  the  refectory,  two  of  the  hooded 
sisters  were  shelling  peas.  Lessons  were  over.  It 
was  a  golden  afternoon.  The  magnolias  loaded  every 
gust  with  flattering  sweetness.  In  the  garden,  Lai  sat 
in  solitary  state,  Zoombi,  the  great  peacock-feather  fan 
dropped  from  her  hand,  asleep  behind  her. 

In  the  warm,  soft,  drowsy  stillness,  the  cords  of  this 
lonely  young  potentate's  stern  resolution  relaxed.  An 
emissary  from  the  free  and  fearless  Bedouins  infesting 
the  banquette  outside  was  struck  rigid  with  amazement 
upon  being  received  with  something  suspiciously  akin 
to  relief  and  eagerness,  and  sent  back  with  a  message 
which  bade  the  whole  tribe  to  enter. 


202  MISTRESS  JOY 

The  lapse  was  sudden  and  complete.  This  thing 
also  Lai  did  energetically.  The  pied  assembly,  black, 
white,  and  yellow,  was  shrieking  in  mid-ecstasy  of  a 
strenuous  and  recondite  game  of  tag,  when  down  the 
long  corridor  came  the  Mother  Superior,  with  a  very 
finely  dressed  and  highly  rouged  dame  beside  her.  At 
the  door  she  met  a  mounted  post  with  a  packet  of 
letters. 

The  lady  who  accompanied  Mother  Clemence  was 
known  among  her  associates  simply  as  "Madame." 
Her  house  on  Canal  Street,  demure  of  exterior,  gor 
geous  within,  was  much  frequented  by  the  dandies  of 
the  town.  But  it  was  especially  the  resort  of  gentle 
men  adventurers,  soldiers  of  fortune,  all  sorts  of  loose 
fish  which  swam  the  cosmopolitan  tide  that  rose  upon 
those  coasts. 

Three  years  before,  Madame,  deserted  by  her  ser 
vants,  had  been  nursed  through  the  yellow  fever  by  the 
sisters  of  the  Three  Sorrows.  Her  gratitude  took  the 
form  of  an  annual  visit  and  gift  to  the  convent.  This 
pilgrimage  was  perhaps  as  near  a  religious  observance 
as  Madame's  life  ever  approached. 

Mother  Clemence  called  one  of  the  sisters,  and  bade 
her  show  Madame  through  the  hospital,  while  she  her 
self  should  read  the  letters  brought  by  the  post. 

Madame's  interest  in  the  improvements  which  her 
last  gift  had  enabled  the  sisters  to  make,  as  shown  to 
her  in  detail  by  the  meek  nun,  wTas  but  languid.  "Yes, 
yes,"  she  cried,  "the  cots  will,  perchance,  be  better  that 
way;  but  methinks  they  are  most  horrible,  anyhow. 
Being  ill  is  sure  a  sin.  People  should  be  soundly 
flogged  for  daring  to." 

"O  Madame,  our  poor  patients!"  protested  the  nun. 

But  Madame  looked  about  upon  the  ailing  creatures 
with  her  hard,  bright  smile.  "A  good  trouncing  would 
cure  most  of  'em,  I  warrant  me,"  she  declared,  and 


MISTRESS   JOY  203 

swept  on  down  the  stairway,  the  dismayed  nun  trotting 
after  her. 

When  the  sister  reached  the  courtyard,  Madame  was 
standing  near  Lalla,  and  the  last  heel  of  the  last  fleeing 
Bedouin  was  vanishing  through  the  gateway. 

"Who  is  that  little  monkey?"  the  woman  asked, point 
ing  with  her  cane  to  Lalla.  And  in  a  respectful  under 
tone  the  child's  title  and  dignities  were  recited  to  her. 

"  'Od's  life,  a  princess !"  she  sneered.  "What  is  't 
ye  tell  me  the  father  pays  for  her  keep  and  schooling 
here?" 

The  sister  did  not  know,  but  mentioned  a  sum  which 
she  thought  might  be  near  the  figure.  "La !"  screamed 
Madame,  "  't  is  revenue  enough  to  keep  up  two  con 
vents — and  you  ding-donging  at  the  public  for  gifts! 
Well,  'the  churches  and  hell  are  never  filled,'  as  the 
saying  goes." 

The  horrified  nun  strove  to  draw  her  away  from  the 
children,  but  Madame  was  interested  in  the  princess, 
and  refused  bluntly  to  go.  "How  many  wives  hath 
your  father?"  she  asked,  touching  the  child  on  the 
shoulder. 

Lalla  arose  with  dignity,  and  was  about  to  depart 
without  speaking.  "Sulky  imp !"  commented  Madame. 
"Make  her  answer,  Sister  Mary  Paul." 

"Your  pardon,  Madame;  I  cannot  force  her  to  re 
ply,"  deprecated  the  sister,  with  lowered  eyes.  "  'T  is 
not  permitted  that  any  save  Sister  Angelina,  her 
teacher,  take  authority  with  her.  I  can  myself  tell  you 
that  her  father  hath  no  wife.  He  is  widowed,  and 
Lalla  is  his  only  child." 

Madame  looked  curiously  at  the  small,  black  face, 
turned  up  to  hers,  full  of  defiant  dislike.  "Humph !" 
she  muttered,  "a  nigger  brat — a  piccaninny — to  finger 
all  that  chink!  And  later — to  be —  Her  eyes  nar 
rowed  thoughtfully.  "What  doth  the  girl  like?"  she 


204  MISTRESS   JOY 

asked  abruptly,  turning  to  the  nun.  "Sugar-plums? 
Is  she  never  friendly?" 

"She  hath  all  that  she  desires.  And  't  is  not  per 
mitted,"  answered  the  nun,  returning  to  her  formula, 
"that  she  make  friends  or  visit  in  the  city." 

She  had  all  that  she  desired !  Who  in  the  grown-up 
world  about  them  ever  fathoms  the  heart  of  a  child? 
Poor  Lalla  was  one  bundle  of  ignorant,  uncontrolled, 
battling  desires. 

Madame,  who  seemed  to  have  some  vague  plan  con 
cerning  her,  turned  and  spoke  with  some  attempt  at 
kindness  to  the  child,  questioning  at  random,  but  with 
watchful  eyes,  of  her  studies  and  of  her  life  here  and 
at  home  on  the  island. 

Lalla,  her  chin  held  high,  answered  in  haughty  mon 
osyllables. 

As  they  talked,  Mother  Clemence  came  down  the 
stair  from  the  upper  gallery,  bearing  a  very  troubled 
countenance.  She  listened  a  moment  to  Madame's  con 
ciliatory  speeches,  then,  drawing  nearer  to  Lalla,  "My 
poor  child,  I  have  terrible  news  for  you,"  she  said. 

"My  father!"  cried  Lalla,  instantly.  "They  have 
killed  him?" 

The  mother  silently  nodded. 

Lalla's  father  was  dead ;  that  was  the  news  the  let 
ters  had  brought — stabbed  by  one  of  his  own  house 
hold.  The  pretender  who  had  procured  his  death  now 
occupied  the  throne — that  seat  so  insecure,  so  uncom 
fortable,  which  cost  many  lives  to  reach  and  more  to 
hold.  To  insure  his  own  dynasty,  the  new  king — or 
president,  as  he  at  first  called  himself — was  now,  so  ran 
the  letter,  day  by  day  hastily  trying,  condemning,  and 
executing  the  old  king's  friends  and  followers. 

The  whole  fabric  of  Lalla's  life  had  fallen  at  a 
stroke,  and  left  her  desolate.  She  stood  before  the 
Mother  Superior,  clutching  and  unclutching  her  thin, 


MISTRESS  JOY  205 

little  black  hands.  "Will  nobody  come  for  me?"  she 
choked. 

"No;  there  is  none  left  now  to  send  for  you,  my 
child.  You  must  e'en  bide  here." 

"And  not  be  a  princess  any  more?  Be  a  negress — a 
common  negress?  Be  a  servant?"  her  voice  rising  on 
each  broken  ejaculation,  until  she  screamed  in  terror: 
"Ai,  ai !  Will  I  be  a  servant?" 

The  nun,  habituated  to  the  sight  of  suffering  through 
the  experiences  of  her  daily  life,  and  by  birth  and  edu 
cation  indifferent  to  all  sufferings  of  Lalla's  race,  was 
touched  by  the  untempered  despair  of  one  so  young. 

But  Madame  watched  with  eager,  enjoying  curiosity 
while  Lalla  stormed  and  raged,  then  wept  forlornly. 
At  the  last  she  cried :  "Be  quiet !  I  would  speak  to 
Mother  Clemence." 

She  pointed  with  her  cane  toward  Zoombi,  who  was 
patiently  trying  to  set  to  rights  her  princess's  disar 
ranged  attire,  and  said  sharply : 

"Look  you,  this  woman  appears  a  stout,  able  negress. 
I  will  take  her  into  my  service,  and  pay  you  a  small 
wage.  'T  will  help  make  up  to  you  for  the  keep  of 
the  brat."  And  once  more,  as  though  to  a  little  howl 
ing  dog  or  cat,  she  cried,  "Be  quiet!"  and  added, 
"Faith,  the  little  devil  screams  like  a  macaw!" 

But  Lalla  had  heard  only  Madame's  proposal  to  take 
Zoombi,  and  she  wailed : 

"If  you  send  Zoombi  away — O  Mother  Clemence! 
You  will  not  send  her  away!  Who  would  dress  me, 
then — and  clean  my  shoes — and  wash  me — and  bring 
my  breakfast?  Oh,  who  will  talk  to  me  of  home?" 

"Child,"  came  the  reply,  in  the  nun's  voice  of  trained 
repression,  "we  are  all  poor.  We  have  made  ourselves 
as  beggars,  for  the  love  of  the  blessed  Lord.  None 
here  can  leave  her  holy  labors  to  do  those  offices.  And 
for  Zoombi,  she  must  now  earn  her  bread — perchance 


206  MISTRESS  JOY 

your  own  as  well."  Mother  Clemence  cast  down  her 
eyes  and  stood  passive. 

Madame  glanced  from  Lalla's  little,  black  face  to 
the  nun's  mask-like  countenance.  She  stepped  boldly 
up  to  the  child,  and  again  cried :  "Why,  look  you !  I 
see  here  two  things  which  I  can  use,  instead  of  one. 
My  macaw — this  brat  screams  just  like  it — died  yes 
terday;  both  my  monkeys  are  in  a  consumption;  me- 
thinks  her  majesty  might  slip  into  their  places  amazing 
well.  Why  not  let  me  take  both  negresses?" 

"The  princess — "  began  Mother  Clemence. 

"Nay,  nay,"  interrupted  Madame,  "the  child  need 
work  but  little,  and  she  shall  not  be  beaten.  I  cannot 
promise  quite  royal  state,  but 't  will  be  food  and  shelter, 
and  methinks  the  girl  might  be  useful  to  me." 

Mother  Clemence  debated  with  herself  a  moment. 
"I  will  speak  to  Father  Bernard  of  the  matter,"  she 
said  finally.  "We  will  see — we  will  see.  If  no  ar 
rangement  may  be  made  here,  perhaps — perhaps,  my 
daughter." 

And  she  continued,  as  she  walked  away  with  Ma 
dame  :  "Remember  this  poor  creature  hath  a  soul  to  be 
saved,  even  as  you  or  I." 

Madame  laughed  lightly.  "In  which  she  differs,  I 
judge  you  would  fain  say  to  me,  from  my  macaw  and 
my  monkeys.  Well,  then,  Mother  Clemence,  I  will 
lay  it  to  heart  that  she  hath  a  soul  to  be  saved — or  to 
be  damned ;  and  she  may  be  either,  for  all  I  care,"  she 
added  under  her  breath,  as  she  gathered  up  her  silken 
draperies  and  sailed  away  to  her  waiting  volante. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

was  a  long  room  with  lofty,  painted 
ceiling,  and  handsomely  but  oddly  fur 
nished.  There  were  pictures  on  the 
walls — excellent  pictures,  but  all  of  one 
type.  Down  the  center  of  the  apart 
ment  stood  tables,  and  these  tables 
were  covered  with  green  cloth.  There 
was  something  overdone  in  the  magnificence  of  the 
place.  A  little  too  much  gilding,  ornaments  too  many, 
draperies  too  voluminous,  proclaimed  the  public  room 
and  not  the  home. 

This  was  what  Madame  pleased  to  call  her  draw 
ing-room.  To-night  it  was  full  of  guests  sitting  at 
the  long  tables,  and  these  guests  were  all  men.  Ma- 
dame's  drawing-room  was,  in  short,  the  salon  of  one 
of  the  most  noted  gambling  resorts  in  the  New  Orleans 
of  that  date. 

The  air  was  a  glare  of  brightness,  and  almost  intol 
erably  warm  from  the  flame  of  multitudinous  candles. 
An  orchestra,  somewhere  out  of  sight,  played  dance 
music.  Madame,  magnificently  dressed,  received  her 
guests  near  the  doorway,  or  passed  from  table  to  table, 
with  here  and  there  a  familiar  word,  a  nod  or  a  smile 
to  some  special  friend. 

At  Madame's  elbow,  clad  in  a  quiet  suit  of  puce  silk, 
yet  with  speckless  ruffles  of  fine  lace,  and  a  diamond 
like  a  great  tear  shining  in  his  shirt  frill,  stood  Jessop. 

207 


208  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Not  playing,  Jessop?"  Madame  inquired.  "You  used 
not  to  be  shy  of  it.  Have  you  turned  Methody?" 

Jessop  flushed  uneasily.  "Perhaps  I  have  turned 
honest  man,  Madame,"  he  retorted. 

"  'Once  a  gambler,  always  a  gambler/  "  quoted  Ma 
dame,  sententiously.  "Best  sit  thee  down  and  have  it 
out.  'T  is  bound  to  come  sooner  or  later." 

Jessop  glanced  moodily  toward  the  table,  as  though 
he  half  considered  the  advisability  of  accepting  the 
woman's  counsel. 

"Well  met,  Major  Jessop!"  cried  a  familiar  voice 
from  the  doorway,  and  Colonel  Aaron  Burr  came  for 
ward  with  outstretched  hand. 

Jessop's  first  impulse  was,  ignoring  the  hand,  to  tax 
Burr  to  his  face  with  his  recent  perfidy  in  leaving  his 
poor  tools  of  the  abortive  Mississippi  plot  to  their  fate. 
But  there  was  his  own  coat,  morally  speaking,  in  tat 
ters,  and  he  felt  that  a  certain  laxness  as  to  such  rents  in 
the  garments  of  others  not  only  became  him,  but  was 
in  some  sort  an  apology  for  his  own  shortcomings. 
His  greeting  to  Colonel  Burr  could  not,  however,  have 
been  called  warm.  The  two  men  strolled  the  length 
of  the  room  together,  remarking  the  players  and  chat 
ting  of  indifferent  matters. 

As  they  turned  again  toward  the  entrance  where 
Madame  stood,  "I  presume  you  have  been  meeting  Mis 
tress  Joyce  Valentine  here,"  Burr  remarked. 

"Why,  no,"  returned  Jessop;  "I  came  but  the  day 
before  yesterday.  I  knew  Mistress  Valentine  was  in 
New  Orleans,  but  I  have  not  called." 

"Faith,"  laughed  Burr,  "I  do  think  't  is  the  only 
young  gallant  in  town  who  hath  not  done  so." 

"Is  Mistress  Joyce,  then,  so  much  a  belle?"  inquired 
Jessop,  with  uneasy  interest. 

"So  much  a  belle,  is  it?"  repeated  Burr.  "I  give  you 
my  word  that  our  little  Natchez  Methody  is  turning 


MISTRESS  JOY  209 

the  heads  of  all  the  men  in  town.  They  serenade  her 
three  deep,  so  that  her  uncle,  at  whose  house  she  lies, 
hath  thought,  I  am  told,  of  asking  protection  from  the 
military.  And  whenever  she  goes  abroad,  't  is  like 
an  Easter  procession  in  which  all  the  novices  are  young 
beaux." 

To  Jessop  this  information  was  both  pleasing  and 
unwelcome.  He  had  his  own  reasons  for  not  desiring 
to  meet  Joyce  during  her  stay  in  New  Orleans,  and 
yet  he  hoped  that  he  might  see  her. 

When  a  drunkard  is  troubled  the  drink  reaches  for 
him,  and  in  anxiety  the  gambler  reaches  for  his  cards. 
Considering  thus,  it  may  not  seem  so  strange  that,  dis 
quieted  by  this  news,  Jessop,  almost  before  he  knew  it, 
was  sitting  at  one  of  the  little  tables,  with  the  old, 
familiar  bits  of  pasteboard  in  his  hand. 

Burr,  whose  visit  was  mainly  one  of  curiosity,  seated 
himself  finally  upon  one  of  the  sofas.  The  music — 
sad,  as  dance  music  is  always  sad — wailed  and  sobbed 
through  the  rooms.  The  light  swish  of  the  paste 
boards,  the  hum  of  subdued  conversation,  an  oath  pro 
nounced  now  and  then  with  a  little  more  vivacity  than 
the  words  which  preceded  or  followed  it — these  made 
up  the  sounds  in  Madame' s  drawing-room. 

Through  the  window  came  the  scent  of  the  ever- 
present  orange  blossoms.  All  about  the  apartment 
were  tall  china  vases  carrying  great  pyramids  of  the 
waxen  bloom ;  on  tiny  stands  the  golden  globes  of  the 
fruit  itself. 

A  tall,  gray-haired  old  gentleman,  in  a  plum-colored 
suit,  pushed  back  from  one  of  the  tables  near  Burr, 
and,  leaving  it,  seated  himself  beside  the  colonel  on  the 
sofa,  after  first  courteously  asking  his  permission  to 
do  so. 

Burr  remarked  that  the  scene  before  them  was  an 
interesting  one.  "It  is  so  to  me  still,"  confirmed  the 
14 


zio  MISTRESS   JOY 

old  gentleman,  "though  I  have  been  coming  here  for 
my  evening  game  these  fifteen  years.  In  fact,  I  have 
been  coming  here  for  my  evening  game  ever  since  Juan 
Rubio  launched  her.  Madame  was  a  young  woman 
then — and  pretty.  Perchance  you  may  remember 
Rubio  was  hung  eventually,  and  Madame  draped  the 
place  in  black.  'T  was  curious  playing  cards  in  among 
the  crape,  but  then  Madame  is  curious.  She  would 
never  go  by  Rubio's  name  after  he  was  hung.  'T  was 
piracy,  you  know.  That  's  what  they  made  it,  though, 
to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief,  't  was  no  more 
than  a  bit  of  smuggling." 

"Madame  Rubio,"  murmured  Burr.  "And  what 
name  does  she  bear  now  ?  I  find  the  tradesmen  and  the 
drivers  of  volantes  and  caleches  all  know  her  simply 
as  Madame." 

"  'Od's  life!"  ejaculated  the  elder  man,  "I  could 
not  tell  you,  old  friend  as  I  am.  I  think  she  changes 
her  names  with  her  frocks.  A  year  or  so  gone,  't  was 
Madame  Jessop.  She  was  plucking  a  young  fool  of 
an  Englishman  then — Mountfalcon  a'Jessop,  I  think 
he  called  himself." 

"Is  that  the  man?"  asked  Burr,  quietly,  glancing  to 
where  Jessop  sat  intent  upon  his  game. 

The  old  gentleman  put  up  his  glass  and  looked. 
"Why,  so  't  is,"  he  agreed.  "The  fellow  hath  come 
back.  He  left  here  mightily  frayed  at  the  seams.  He 
appears  to  be  again  in  fortune.  Well,  if  so,  Madame 
will  find  him  worth  the  plucking  once  more,"  and  the 
old  gentleman  chuckled. 

The  sofas  about  the  room  were  now  well  filled  with 
spectators.  A  genial  buzz  of  conversation  accom 
panied  the  serving  of  fruits  and  wines.  Suddenly 
the  music  ceased,  a  bell  was  rung,  a  man  and  a  wo 
man  in  Spanish  costume  mounted  a  raised  platform 
at  one  end  of  the  room,  whereupon  the  music  recom- 


MISTRESS  JOY  211 

menced,  but  in  a  new  measure,  and  a  Spanish  dance 
was  given. 

At  its  close  the  old  gentleman  yawned  slightly. 
"Madame — Jessop,  as  I  suppose  I  must  now  begin  to 
call  her  again — is  famous  for  getting  the  most  curious 
performers  to  amuse  her  audiences.  Sometimes  she 
goes  too  far.  Five  years  agone  she  had  in  a  man  with 
performing  leopards ;  one  of  them  got  loose  and  clawed 
a  slave,  I  think,  to  death.  She  has  learned  to  be  more 
prudent  nowadays." 

A  singer  had  followed  the  dancers,  and  now  a  jug 
gler  was  tossing  aloft  little  balls,  drawing  rabbits  from 
his  hat,  and  performing  the  usual  repertoire  of  tricks. 

Burr's  attention  came  back  to  Jessop;  he  fancied 
the  man  was  playing  high — and  losing.  When  his 
eyes  were  recalled  to  the  stage  he  saw  a  giant  negress, 
all  in  white,  holding  aloft  a  crimson,  gold-fringed  um 
brella.  Beneath  this  canopy  stood  the  most  absurd 
small  figure  that  could  be  imagined.  It  was  a  child,  in 
tensely  black,  very  solemn.  A  small  gilt  crown  was  on 
her  woolly  head.  She  was  tricked  out  in  a  gown  of 
purple  velvet,  an  ermine  stole  about  her  neck.  As  he 
looked  with  some  surprise  at  this  grotesque  figure,  the 
child  began  reciting,  with  considerable  spirit  and  abil 
ity,  a  queen's  soliloquy  from  one  of  the  plays  of  an  old 
French  dramatist. 

The  effect  of  the  grandiose  words,  so  tragically  ut 
tered  by  this  quaint  little  piccaninny,  was  inexpressibly 
incongruous.  At  a  table  nearest  the  platform  some 
men  looked  up  from  their  game  and  began  to  laugh. 

The  child  instantly  halted  and  glared  at  them.  The 
laugh  grew  louder.  Her  little  face  convulsed  with 
rage.  Her  eyes  rolled  whitely.  "I  will  not  say  it — I 
will  not !"  she  screamed.  "I  will  not  stand  here  to  be 
mocked !"  She  stamped  her  foot,  and,  tearing  the  tin 
sel  crown  from  her  head,  trampled  it  in  a  transport  of 


212  MISTRESS  JOY 

rage.  "Nobody  can  make  me  say  it,"  she  cried.  "I 
am  a  queen,  my  father  is  a  king,  and  he  will  have 
every  one  of  your  silly  heads  cut  off !" 

At  this  a  great  roar  of  laughter  arose.  And  when  the 
poor  Princess  Lai,  kicking  and  screaming,  was  borne 
off  by  Zoombi,  it  was  voted  quite  the  most  amusing 
performance  of  the  evening. 

As  Colonel  Burr  took  his  departure,  he  paused  beside 
the  table  at  which  Jessop  was  playing.  "What  luck, 
major?"  he  asked  gaily. 

"The  devil's  own,"  Jessop  answered  savagely. 

"Ah,  well,"  smiled  Burr,  "you  know  the  proverb, 
major,  'lucky  in  love,  unlucky  at  cards.'  That  man 
who  hath  won  the  heart  of  sweet  Mistress  Joyce  Val 
entine  needs  not  luck  at  cards." 

At  mention  of  Joy's  name,  Jessop's  face  went  white. 
"How  knew  you  of  that?"  he  gasped  hoarsely,  half 
rising.  His  hand  groped  for  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 
"Who  told  you  of  it,  and  how  dare  you  come  here  with 
your  damned  meddling  tongue  to  prate  of  it  ?" 

"Softly,  softly,"  counseled  Burr.  "Fair  and  softly, 
major.  I  said  naught  but  what  all  the  world  knows." 
And  to  himself  he  murmured,  as  he  went  out :  "Soho ! 
The  prodigal  weds  the  parson's  daughter,  after  all. 
And  a  pernicious  fellow  it  is — one  into  whose  wheel  I 
would  fain  thrust  a  spoke." 

It  was  broad  daylight  before  Madame's  drawing- 
room  was  cleared  of  its  guests.  When  they  were  all 
gone,  Jessop,  who  had  lingered  to  the  last,  turned  to 
the  woman  and  said :  "Why  the  devil  did  you  send  me 
that  money?  'T  is  gone.  Meseems  't  is  like  chang 
ing  coins  from  one  pocket  to  another  for  you  to  give 
it  me  and  then  win  it  back  over  the  cloth  here." 

Madame  smiled  an  inscrutable  smile.  "I  wearied 
for  you,"  she  declared,  "ere  you  were  a  month  gone. 
And  when  your  letter  came,  desiring  the  clothes,  I 


MISTRESS   JOY  213 

sent  first  them,  and,  seeing  that  did  not  recall  you,  the 
money  after.  'T  was  like  rolling  pennies  downhill 
after  a  lost  coin;  but,  since  it  brought  you  back,  I  am 
right  glad  I  ventured  it." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense !"  broke  in  Jessop.  "You  never 
cared  one  groat  for  me.  I  know  right  well,  Madame, 
that  when  you  spend  money  it  is  to  get  money;  but 
how  you  shall  come  by  any  from  such  an  empty  purse 
as  I,  't  is  a  riddle  to  me." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  looked  at  her  with 
narrowed,  speculative  eyes,  as  she  sat  across  from  him. 
Was  it  possible  she  had  heard  of  his  intended  mar 
riage  with  Joy,  and  was  jealous  thereat?  Vanity  fa 
vored  this  conclusion,  but  Jessop's  vanity  had  learned 
hard  lessons  so  far  as  Madame  was  concerned. 

Daylight  in  a  room  which  has  contained  a  consid 
erable  party  overnight  always  brings  cynical  revela 
tions.  Refuse  bits  of  paper,  torn  playing-cards,  scraps 
of  orange-peel,  and  the  ash  of  many  cigarettes  strewed 
table  and  floor  in  Madame's  drawing-room. 

The  servants  had  been  sent  away,  that  she  might 
have  her  talk  with  Jessop  uninterrupted.  Glasses 
empty  and  half  filled  encumbered  the  tables.  Despite 
the  freshness  of  the  morning,  there  was  a  stale  air  in 
the  room,  a  fagged,  haggard  look  over  everything 
and  upon  the  faces  of  the  two  who  sat  talking.  Ma- 
dame's  rouge  stood  out  startlingly  on  her  pale  cheeks, 
but  she  bore  Jessop's  scrutiny  with  her  usual  impas 
sive  calm. 

"If  my  damned  vanity  had  not  led  me  to  ask  for 
those  clothes,  I  was  quit  of  you,"  he  growled. 

"Who  is  this  woman  ?"  asked  Madame,  hardily. 

"Cherchez  la  femme,"  returned  Jessop,  in  his  most 
trifling  and  cynical  manner.  "You  believe  in  the  say 
ing,  meseems." 

"For  what  else  should  you  want  evening  clothes?" 


2i4  MISTRESS  JOY 

inquired  Madame.  "Is 't  a  maid?  Hath  she  money? 
Are  you  thinking  to  wed,  Jessop  ?" 

"  'T  is  a  maid,  she  hath  not  money,  and  I  am  even 
thinking  of  breaking  incontinently  into  the  holy  es 
tate  of  matrimony,"  answered  Jessop,  with  mounting 
gaiety. 

"You  'd  never  be  such  a  fool !"  exclaimed  Madame. 
"Money  you  needs  must  have;  women  come  for  the 
asking." 

"Prate  not  to  me  of  being  a  fool,  my  mentor;  you 
have  not  seen  Joyce  Valentine."  With  the  uttering  of 
Joy's  name  here  in  this  place,  the  realization  of  who  it 
was  to  whom  he  was  dilating  upon  her  charms,  there 
came  a  sudden  tightness  in  Jessop's  throat.  He  rose 
with  a  gesture  of  loathing,  and  stood  looking  the 
woman  over  somberly.  Under  that  naked  distaste  she 
shrank  a  trifle.  At  last  he  broke  out:  "Body  o'  God, 
Madame,  what  a  hound  you  make  of  me !" 

"I?"  she  queried.  "Did  I  corrupt  the  immaculate 
Mountfalcon  a' Jessop?  Sad — is  't  not? — that  the 
wicked  women  will  not  let  these  pious  youths  alone,  but 
must  still  come  tempting  them." 

"  'T  is  no  use  bandying  words,"  rejoined  Jessop, 
fiercely,  "whether  you,  or  life,  or  circumstances  have 
made  a  villain  of  me,  methinks  my  father's  son  was 
born  for  better  things." 

"La,  la,"  exclaimed  Madame,  "fine  words,  my  Jes 
sop!  The  coat  upon  your  back  is  bought  with  my 
money,  you  have  just  lost  the  last  penny  I  gave  you 
across  the  table,  and  your  tongue  is  even  now  tickling 
to  ask  me  for  more." 

Jessop  looked  down  at  the  woman  furiously.  Every 
word  she  uttered  was  true,  even  to  the  last — that  he 
needed  money,  and  knew  not  where  else  to  come  by  it. 

Madame  had  been  figuring  upon  some  little  tablets 
drawn  from  her  girdle.  Now  she  reached  across,  and 


MISTRESS  JOY  215 

laid  them  on  the  table  before  him.  There,  set  down 
with  his  name  and  the  date,  was  every  sum  of  money 
she  had  given  him  after  his  own  fortune  went  across 
her  gaming-tables.  She  pointed  to  the  reckoning  at 
the  bottom. 

"A  pretty  little  total,  my  friend,"  she  said  dryly. 
"A  man  who  would  be  free  must  pay  his  score.  Have 
ye  wherewith  to  pay?  I  doubt  it."  Then,  with  a  sud 
den  change  of  tone,  as  her  companion  dropped  into  his 
chair  and  hid  his  shamed  face  among  the  scattered 
cards  upon  the  table :  "Ah,  Jessop,  Jessop,  you  are  but  a 
boy,  after  all.  I  am  not  angry  with  you.  I  cannot  be 
angry  with  you.  See,  here,  I  give  it  freely,  just  as  I 
give  you  my  love  always."  She  pushed  a  pile  of 
coins  over  against  his  hand.  Jessop,  without  raising 
his  head,  shrunk  as  though  their  touch  had  burned 
him. 

Madame  was  a  wise  woman.  She  made  no  fur 
ther  tender  of  herself  or  her  affections,  but,  bending, 
placed  a  hand  upon  his  hair  and  whispered  softly : 
"Poor  boy!  In  faith,  I  'm  sorry;  but  I  love  you  too 
well  to  give  you  up  without  a  struggle."  And,  moving 
noiselessly  away,  she  left  him,  the  untouched  money  on 
the  table  beside  him. 

After  a  little,  Jessop  felt  a  timid  touch  upon  his 
knee.  "Can't  you  let  me  alone,  damn  you?"  he 
groaned,  without  looking  up. 

"Lalla  thought  you  were  dead,"  said  a  very  small, 
meek  voice.  "Lalla  found  a  dead  man  here  one  morn 
ing,  but  there  was  a  hole  in  his  head,  and  blood  every 
where.  It  spoiled  the  carpet,  and  Madame  was  angry." 
All  this  in  good  French,  not  the  clipped  Creole  French. 

Jessop  raised  his  haggard  face,  ashen  under  the  cold 
search  of  the  early  day,  and  looked.  It  was  the  small, 
black  girl  who  had  recited  the  Queen's  Soliloquy.  She 
was  dressed  now  in  the  garb  which  the  other  servants 


216  MISTRESS   JOY 

wore.  "Poor  man,  has  the  white  devil  ordered  you 
whipped?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Jessop,  under  his  breath,  and  speaking 
not  to  the  wondering  child,  but  to  himself,  ''she  has 
ordered  me  whipped  by  all  the  furies  of  hell." 

"Prithee,  let  us  go  and  kill  her,"  was  the  child's 
startling  proposition.  "Zoombi  is  afraid;  Zoombi  is 
a  great  big  coward." 

Jessop  rose  up,  and,  forgetting  the  child,  stood  star 
ing  at  the  money.  He  knew  that  he  would  eventually 
take  it;  he  felt  to  the  full  the  shame  of  doing  so. 
He  realized  that  if  he  could  but  wait,  money  would 
come  to  him  from  England.  But  did  a  gambler  ever 
wait? 

His  hand  stole  toward  the  pieces.  When  funds 
came  from  his  father  he  would  repay  it.  But  he  must 
have  money  now.  Beaten  back  into  the  old  slough  of 
degradation,  he  longed  inexpressibly  for  sight  of  Joy, 
the  one  creature  who  had  ever  helped  him  at  his  worst 
to  attain  his  better  self.  To  be  able  to  see  her,  he  must 
have  money.  It  was  a  risk,  of  course,  to  see  her  at 
all,  but  it  was  a  risk  he  must  run. 

He  shoved  the  coins  carelessly  into  the  pocket  of  his 
coat,  then  became  again  aware  of  the  little  creature 
standing  beside  him,  staring  at  him  solemnly.  "Dost 
want  some  of  it?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Yes,"  returned  Lalla.  "Had  we  money,  Zoombi 
and  I  could  get  away  from  the  white  devil." 

Jessop  laughed  discordantly  as  he  drew  out  a  coin 
and  flung  it  to  her.  "Pardie,  I  shall  use  it  to  get  away 
from  the  white  devil,  too!"  he  said. 

"I  pray  you,  help  me  to  kill  her,"  urged  Lalla. 
"I  would  rather  kill  her  than  run  away  from  her. 
Why  do  you  run  away?"  she  added.  "You  have  a 
sword.  Had  I  a  sword,  none  should  drive  me." 

Again  the  mirthless  laugh  came  to  Jessop's   lips. 


MISTRESS  JOY  217 

"Faith,"  he  said,  "even  the  throneless  queen  knows  me 
for  a  renegade." 

The  two  exiles  from  high  position  stood  measuring 
and  estimating  each  other :  one  a  child — a  woman  child 
— small,  black,  ignorant,  with  the  high  heart  and  cour 
age  of  a  warrior;  the  other  of  earth's  dominant  race, 
a  man,  trained  to  arms,  whose  soul  was  unstable  as 
tide- water. 

Lalla  sighed  impatiently.  "Thank  you  for  the 
money,"  she  said.  She  was  learning  humility  and 
courtesy  in  a  hard  school.  "But  I  wish  you  were  a 
man  like  my  father,  and  would  go  with  me  and  help 
me  to  kill  her." 


CHAPTER   XX 

HE  abundant  finery  Madame  Ausite 
provided  for  Joyce — all,  as  she  as 
serted,  purchased  with  the  contents  of 
the  small  purse,  which  must  have  ri 
valed  that  of  Fortunatus — was  mon 
strously  becoming  to  the  stately 
young  beauty. 
When  Joyce  told  her  aunt  that  she  thought  there 
could  never  have  been  such  a  shopper  before,  and  ex 
claimed  over  the  quantity  and  elegance  of  her  pur 
chases,  good  Madame  Valentine  merely  laughed  and, 
with  a  hearty  kiss,  declared  that  naught  could  be  too 
fine  for  such  a  pretty  chick  as  her  sweet  niece.  The  girl 
was  becoming  warmly  attached  to  her  new  relatives, 
but  among  them  she  had  her  favorites.  Her  cousin 
Madeleine  she  deemed  the  most  beautiful  girl  she  had 
ever  seen.  Not  even  Wilful,  so  famous  far  and  near 
for  charm  and  loveliness,  could  equal  her,  Joyce  de 
cided. 

And  still  they  talked  of  beauty,  and  of  Joy's  beauty, 
until  she  went  fairly  dizzy  with  the  adulation  and 
the  pride  of  it  all.  The  soldier  cousin  showed  great 
eagerness  to  be  foremost  among  her  flatterers,  but  she 
minded  well  all  that  Tante  Ausite  had  said  to  her  of 
Captain  Luis  and  his  fancy  for  flirtation.  His  ardor 
mounting  with  opposition,  Luis  swore  he  loved  her, 
and  her  alone  of  all  the  world,  denied  that  he  had  ever 
flirted  or  could  flirt  with  any,  and  wept  great  tears  or 

218 


MISTRESS  JOY  219 

disappointment — not  of  love,  as  Joyce  believed — over 
her  coldness. 

It  seemed  to  Joy  that  these  days  in  her  uncle's  house 
were  fuller  of  pleasure  than  the  days  at  home  had  ever 
been  of  work.  Sometimes  she  thought,  with  a  little 
dismay,  that  the  work  had  been  easier,  for  her  at  least, 
than  all  this  junketing.  Her  direct  mind,  trained  to 
the  simple  "yea"  and  "nay"  of  a  primitive  society,  was 
continually  disquieted  to  search  the  real  meaning  of 
these  people  who  talked  so  much  hyperbole,  who  ogled 
and  simpered  or  made  great  eyes  over  nothing  at  all. 

When  thoughts  like  these  came  to  her,  Joy  taxed 
herself  with  treachery  because  she,  even  as  they,  said 
one  thing  and  felt  another.  The  fear  which  haunted 
her  most  was  that  she  was  really  of  a  vacillating  mind 
and  unstable  in  purpose.  She  reproached  herself  that 
she  had  grown  weary  of  the  simplicity  of  her  home, 
had  given  up  that  first  aim  of  her  life  to  preach  the 
Word,  and  come  here  to  seek  she  knew  not  what. 
Now,  was  she  tired  of  this  also  in  a  few  weeks,  and 
longing  for  yet  another  change  ?  She  knew  there  was 
no  desire  to  go  back  to  the  old  cabin  and  the  old  life, 
and  sighed  over  herself  as  a  hopeless  problem. 

Luis,  not  content  with  sending  Joy  flowers  and  cast 
ing  languishing  glances  at  her  whenever  she  was  vis 
ible,  planned  continually  new  festivities  of  which  she 
should  be  the  center.  These  plans  were  for  the  most 
part  promptly  dismissed  by  his  mother,  but  at  last  one 
of  them  found  favor  in  her  eyes.  It  was  to  be  a  picnic 
on  Lake  Pontchartrain  upon  his  approaching  birthday, 
and  he  had  arranged  it  down  to  the  smallest  detail  be 
fore  he  notified  the  ladies  of  his  family. 

Well,  that,  maman  allowed,  might  not  be  so  bad, 
after  all.  Indeed,  so  well  impressed  was  Madame  Val 
entine  with  the  picnic  plan  that  she  even  deigned  to 
give  aid  in  the  preparations.  Her  niece  was  permitted 


220  MISTRESS  JOY 

to  assist,  by  her  presence,  at  some  of  the  more  recon 
dite  of  these  arrangings.  In  the  course  of  this  work 
Joyce  learned  much  of  the  mechanism  of  a  large 
menage,  and  she  came  to  regard  her  aunt  as  a  marvel 
of  housewifely  skill  and  executive  ability.  Every  ser 
vant  in  the  establishment  had  his  or  her  duties  accu 
rately  defined  and  rigorously  required;  with  the  same 
exactness  were  privileges  and  rewards  bestowed  and 
penalties  imposed. 

The  household  was  so  large  and  so  composite  that 
Joyce  never  wholly  understood  who  were  permanent 
•inmates  and  who  merely  visitors  like  herself.  The  rela 
tionships  among  these  various  collateral  branches  of 
the  family,  and  between  them  and  the  Valentines,  was 
an  endless  source  of  puzzlement  to  her. 

These  voluble,  volatile  French  people  at  once  ex 
tended  their  circle  to  embrace  her,  and  she  became  upon 
their  Gallic  tongues  "Cousin  Joyous,"  a  version  of  her 
stern  and  simple  name  which  was  typical  of  their  dis 
position  to  brighten  and  soften  everything  as  it  passed 
them. 

The  day  preceding  the  picnic  fete,  Joy  was  allowed 
to  go  with  Celeste  on  her  regular  early  morning  mar 
keting  trip.  Zette  was  in  attendance  upon  her,  and  two 
negro  men  followed  with  baskets,  to  carry  home  the 
purchases.  The  freshness  of  the  streets  at  that  hour,  the 
odor  of  the  flowers  from  behind  garden  walls,  the  cries 
of  the  street  venders,  were  all  interesting  to  Joy.  She 
noted  with  curiosity  an  entirely  different  world  of  peo 
ple  abroad  at  this  hour  from  those  she  would  see  later. 

There  were  portly  matrons  going  to  attend  to  their 
own  marketing,  some  in  their  carriages,  others  afoot 
and  followed  by  negroes.  There  were  stately  negresses 
like  Celeste,  who  were  apparently  purchasing  for 
wealthy  families,  as  she  was.  But  there  were  no  de 
moiselles  or  young  gallants. 


MISTRESS   JOY  221 

Perilously  near  the  curb  at  one  of  the  street  corners 
they  passed  a  small,  rickety  stand,  piled  high  with  great, 
odorous  bunches  of  violets,  jasmine,  and  orange  blos 
soms.  Behind  this  stood  a  small,  black  girl.  She 
attracted  Joy's  attention  because,  while  the  other  flower- 
venders  were  voluble  in  crying  their  merchandise,  run 
ning  after  the  "pretty  lady,"  even  laying  hands  upon 
her  in  their  effort  to  attract  her  attention  and  con 
vince  her  that  their  wares  were  just  what  she  needed, 
this  child  stood  perfectly  stolid.  She  looked  neither 
to  right  nor  to  left,  but  stared  straight  before  her  with 
a  desolate,  introspective  gaze,  as  though  she  were 
searching  illimitable  spaces  for  something  lost. 

Celeste  chid  and  even  cuffed  the  too  pressing  sales 
women;  but  this  little  graven  image  found  even  less 
favor  in  her  eyes.  She  alluded  to  her  in  passing  as  a 
surly  mechanic  who  needed  the  whip. 

While  they  were  still  in  sight  of  the  stand  and  its 
wooden  proprietress,  a  caleche,  dashing  around  the  cor 
ner,  overthrew  the  flimsy  table,  scattering  bouquets  far 
and  wide,  and  passed,  grazing  the  girl. 

Joy  turned  back  with  quick  sympathy.  A  shrieking 
crowd  of  black,  white,  and  yellow  street  urchins  ran 
out,  and,  scrambling  and  fighting,  flung  themselves 
upon  the  fallen  blossoms. 

The  girl  made  no  effort  to  check  their  onslaught  nor 
recover  her  own,  but  stood,  her  small,  black  hands 
clenched  by  her  sides,  vainly  endeavoring  to  suppress 
the  sobs  which  shook  her  thin,  little  body. 

"Were  you  hurt?"  asked  Joy,  kindly,  while  Celeste 
directed  one  of  the  negroes  to  pick  up  the  fragments 
of  the  stand  and  gather  together  such  remnants  of  the 
stock  as  might  remain. 

There  were  only  a  few  splintered  boards  left,  and 
the  bunches  which  could  be  recovered  were  so  dam 
aged  as  to  be  unsalable.  "Will  your  mother  punish 


222  MISTRESS  JOY 

you?"  inquired  Joy  of  the  little  marchande,  in  the  pre 
occupation  of  her  sympathy  speaking  in  English. 

"I  have  no  mother,"  came  the  answer,  in  the  same 
language,  and  surprisingly  clear  and  correct.  "I  sell 
flowers  for  a  white  woman  down  there,"  and  she  waved 
her  hand  toward  Canal  Street. 

"Hear  the  impudent  little  baggage,"  commented 
Celeste.  Then,  to  the  child,  "You  should  not  call  your 
mistress  a  woman." 

"She  is  not  my  mistress,"  flashed  the  other,  angrily. 
"I  am  not  a  slave — I  am  a  king's  daughter." 

"Umph!"  sniffed  Celeste;  "one  of  these  African  nig 
gers.  I  'm  tired  of  their  airs — me.  I  hope  your  mis 
tress  will  beat  you  well.  'T  will  do  you  good.  Oui, 
mamselje,  't  is  the  only  way  to  train  such  as  these" — to 
Joyce,  who  interposed  in  the  child's  behalf. 

"She  will  beat  me,"  said  the  girl,  stolidly,  "but  I 
care  not  for  that.  Sometime  I  shall  kill  her,"  she 
added,  quite  as  though  she  were  discussing  any  ordi 
nary  matter. 

Joy  was  both  repelled  and  interested.  "Come,  mam- 
selle ;  methmks  madame  would  not  be  pleased  that  you 
should  stand  talking  here  on  the  street  corner."  Then, 
seeing  the  unwilling  look  in  Joy's  eyes,  Celeste  turned 
to  the  child  and  added :  "You  may  follow,  an  it  please 
you  to.  There  's  naught  left  here  for  you  to  look  after, 
and  my  young  lady  seems  to  have  taken  a  fancy  to  your 
ugly,  black  face." 

One  would  not  have  supposed  that  the  child  heard, 
but  that  as  they  went  on  she  followed  them.  Wher 
ever  they  paused  for  Celeste  to  make  purchases,  Joy 
talked  to  the  girl,  thus  hearing  piecemeal  the  poor  little 
Princess  Lai's  story. 

It  touched  her  more  than  another,  because  she  felt 
that  they  were  in  a  sense  fellow-exiles.  Her  own  exile 
was  voluntary.  She  had  left  poverty  and  hardship, 


MISTRESS  JOY  223 

she  had  come  to  ease  and  luxury ;  yet  somewhere  in  her 
heart  was  that  which  answered  to  the  homesick  long 
ing  in  this  child's  eyes. 

Lalla  spoke  indifferently  of  Madame's  cruelty,  which 
was  excessive.  "But,"  said  Celeste,  who  caught  scraps 
of  the  conversation,  "you  are  not  a  slave."  Turning 
to  Joyce,  she  added :  "These  free  negroes  have  a  hard 
time.  'T  is  better  to  have  a  kind  master  than  to  have 
no  master." 

"Would  not  the  sisters  take  you  back?"  asked  Joy. 

"Nay,"  returned  the  Princess  Lai,  seriously.  "I 
must  kill  the  white  devil  first,  and  then  Zoombi  and  I 
will  go  home.  But,"  she  added,  as  an  after-thought, 
"methinks  if  I  could  never  go  home,  and  I  had  to  be  a 
slave,  I  should  be  glacl  to  belong  to  thee.  Thou  'rt 
like  to  the  Holy  Mother  at  home  in  my  father's  chapel. 
She  hath  such  a  face  and  such  gilded  hair." 

"You  should  not  say  'thee'  to  the  demoiselle,"  re 
proved  Celeste,  frowningly. 

A  gigantic  negress  with  a  great  tray  of  fruit  con 
serves  on  her  head  checked  the  singsong  chant  in 
which  she  was  setting  forth  the  values  of  her  wares, 
turned,  and  came  toward  them.  "  'T  is  Zoombi,"  said 
Lalla,  calmly.  "Now  will  I  make  her  get  some  money 
for  me,  and  perchance  I  shall  not  be  beaten." 

Joy  appealed  to  Celeste — she  was  out  without  money 
of  her  own — and  Celeste  unwillingly  handed  the  child 
a  coin.  The  addresses  of  the  sisters  and  the  mistress 
of  the  poor  little  princess  were  noted  down,  and  the 
two  blacks  went  their  way. 

.  When  the  marketing  party  arrived  at  home  it  was 
near  ten  o'clock,  and  Tante  Sophie  came  slipping  into 
Joy's  room  to  ask  if  she  did  not  wish  to  come  up  to 
the  nurseries  for  the  bath  hour. 

Deeply  interested,  Joy  followed.  Tante  Sophie  led 
her  to  a  remote  wing  of  the  house  in  which  she  had 


224  MISTRESS   JOY 

never  been.  Two  great,  airy  rooms,  with  lofty  ceil 
ings,  wide  casements,  and  white  walls,  contained  the 
younger  children  of  the  house  of  Valentine.  There 
were  perhaps  seven  of  them,  but  since  each  little  Val 
entine  was  attended  by  a  nurse  or  two,  and  revolved 
about  by  a  little  dark  satellite  who  had  been  given  it 
as  companion  and  plaything,  they  appeared  to  Joy  be- 
wilderingly  numerous. 

The  advent  of  Tante  Sophie  with  a  stranger  was 
greeted  with  shrieks  of  delight.  Tubs  had  been 
brought  in  and  set  upon  the  bare,  polished  floor,  and 
the  nurses  were  busy  removing  dainty  white  garments 
from  dimpled,  rosy  bodies. 

Two  or  three  naked,  bright-eyed  little  Loves  rushed 
forward  and  charged  the  intruders.  They  swarmed 
all  over  Tante  Sophie,  and,  demanding  Joy's  name, 
were  soon  capering  about  and  addressing  her  in  every 
grade  of  infantile  and  Creole  patois  as  "Cousin  Joy 
ous."  The  scene  was  pretty  enough  to  have  charmed 
any  onlooker.  The  children,  running  and  shouting, 
splashed  the  water  and  shook  the  bright  drops  from 
their  curly  heads,  while  the  odor  of  orange-trees  and 
an  occasional  stray  petal  or  blossom  wafted  in  through 
the  high  casements.  The  mockers  were  in  the  midst 
of  their  morning  concert,  and  their  rapturous  trills 
mingled  with  the  wee  ones'  bubbling  mirth.  The  whole 
scene  was  tuned  to  a  high  pitch  of  sunlight  and  song. 
And  in  the  midst  glowed  Joy,  incarnate  Youth,  with  a 
little  court  of  laughing  Loves. 

Midway  the  revels,  Tante  Ausite's  stately  figure  ap 
peared.  If  Joy  was  a  queen  in  her  court,  Tante  was 
judge  of  the  circuit.  The  judicial  bench  was,  it  ap 
peared,  a  certain  large  carved  chair  reserved  evidently 
for  this  one  occupant.  In  it  Madame  Ausite  seated 
herself,  and  received  smilingly  or  frowningly,  but  with 
scrupulous  attention  to  detail,  all  the  nursery  reports. 


MISTRESS  JOY  225 

And  here  again  Joy  was  impressed  by  this  languid 
fine  lady's  thoroughness  in  the  doing  of  her  duty  as  she 
saw  it.  As  Madame  Maman  was  in  a  hurry,  the  chil 
dren  were  slipped  at  once  into  their  little  chemises,  and 
then  began  an  inquisition  into  the  mental,  moral,  and 
physical  health  of  the  entire  brood.  Even  the  wee 
toddlers  were  learning  to  dance,  and  must  rehearse 
their  baby  accomplishments,  while  the  catechism  was 
not  neglected.  Through  it  all  Joy  noted  the  love  and 
veneration  with  which  Madame  Valentine  was  treated 
by  each  of  her  children. 

The  nursery  inspected,  Tante,  taking  Joyce  with  her, 
proceeded  to  the  weaving-room.  This  was  a  huge, 
well-lighted,  rough  apartment,  removed  some  distance 
from  the  house  proper,  and  connected  with  the  servants' 
quarters,  kitchen,  and  other  detached  buildings.  Here 
all  of  the  cloth  used  upon  the  Valentine  plantations — 
Valencia,  Rosemary,  and  Sligo — was,  under  Madame 
Valentine's  direct  supervision,  spun,  woven,  cut,  and 
made  into  garments. 

Around  the  room,  ranged  upon  shelves,  were  great 
bundles  of  the  cream-white  cloth,  blue  cottonade,  and 
gray  homespun.  Piles  of  clothing,  made  and  in  the 
process  of  making,  encumbered  the  long  tables,  or, 
baled  ready  for  distribution,  lay  piled  upon  the  floor. 

The  forewoman  in  charge  of  the  sewing  brought  her 
reports  and  requests  to  madame.  The  spinners  and 
weavers  were  absent,  the  looms  were  idle.  Joy  looked 
at  these  latter  with  great  delight.  "O  tante,"  she 
begged,  "pray  let  me  weave  a  bit  on  this  great  loom. 
'T  is  three  times  as  large  as  any  I  ever  touched  before. 
We  had  no  loom  at  home,  and  I,  who  wove  all  our 
wear,  must  go  to  Sister  Longanecker's  or  some  other 
neighbor's,  carrying  my  thread." 

Tante  was  not  entirely  convinced  of  the  advisability 
of  permitting  a  demoiselle  to  weave,  there  in  the  pres- 
15 


226  MISTRESS  JOY 

ence  of  the  negroes ;  but  as  Ausite  and  Madeleine  came 
in  and  added  their  entreaties  to  Joy's,  she  reluctantly 
consented. 

Seating  herself  at  the  great  loom,  Joy  took  up  the 
big  shuttle  and  deftly  flung  it  across,  dipping  her  lithe 
young  figure  to  the  motion.  Down  came  her  little 
foot  on  the  treadle,  and  as  the  reed  crossed  the  warp 
she  caught  the  shuttle  again,  tossed  it  back  to  the  other 
side,  and,  swaying  rhythmically,  brought  her  foot  down 
once  more. 

"I  vow,"  exclaimed  Ausite,  "  't  is  almost  like  danc 
ing — if  there  were  only  music  now !" 

Luis,  who  had  been  busied  all  morning  at  the  lake 
with  Neville,  here  put  his  head  in  the  door.  Seeing  the 
slender,  white-robed  figure  at  the  loom,  he  came  inside 
crying,  "Why,  there  should  be  no  lack  of  music,  for 
sure  that  is  St.  Cecilia's  self  seated  there  at  her  organ!" 

Joy  turned  laughingly,  never  pausing  in  her  work, 
to  greet  her  cousin.  The  morning  sun  came  through 
the  window,  and  glorified  her  fair  hair  into  such  an 
aureole  that  Luis's  comparison  seemed  not,  after  all, 
so  strained. 

And  now,  as  she  wove,  Joy  began  to  sing.  It  was 
the  first  time  they  had  heard  that  fresh,  caroling  young 
voice  of  hers ;  for,  having  never  sung  in  public  anything 
other  that  Methodist  hymns,  she  had  not  thought  best 
to  confess  a  singing  voice  at  all.  Now  she  raised  it  in 
a  weaving-song  which  the  negroes  and  Indians  sang  at 
the  looms  in  Natchez.  It  was  an  old  barbaric  chant, 
cadenced  to  the  swinging  of  her  light,  elastic  body,  and 
checked  off  into  measure  by  the  thud  of  the  loom.  She 
began  in  Massawippa's  clear,  liquid  Cherokee,  the  many- 
voweled  syllables  of  which  flowed  like  purling  water; 
and  when  she  had  sung  all  she  remembered  of  those 
words,  she  fell  back  upon  the  negro  version,  whose  re 
frain  was,  "Weave  de  shinin'  gol'." 


MISTRESS  JOY  227 

"Th'ow,  th'ow  cle  shuttle  thoo,  weave  de  shinin' 
gol',"  warbled  the  full,  blithe  voice.  And  while  her 
fingers  tossed  the  shuttle  to  and  fro,  weaving  the 
creamy  cloth,  the  morning  sun  flung  his  beams  through 
the  meshes  of  her  bright  hair  and  wove  the  shining 
gold. 

Tante  turned  and,  catching  sight  of  Luis's  rapt,  ar 
dent  face,  put  a  stop  to  the  performance,  declaring 
dryly  that  't  was  all  very  pretty,  but  not  fit  work  for  a 
demoiselle,  and  she  only  wished  that,  instead  of  weav 
ing,  her  dear  little  Joyous  could  dance  so  well. 

As  they  left  the  loom-room,  Luis  took  the  opportu 
nity  to  say  aside  to  his  cousin,  "How  cruel  you  are, 
Cousin  Joyous,  never  to  have  sung  to  us  before !  Will 
you  sing  at  my  birthday  fete  to-morrow?"  And  Joy 
promised  him  a  song  for  a  birthday  gift. 

Early  the  following  morning  Luis  sent  a  huge  bunch 
of  flowers  to  each  of  the  girls,  with  the  petition  that 
they  wear  wreaths  in  their  hair  instead  of  hats,  as  this 
was  a  spring  festival,  and  he  intended  that  a  queen,  if 
not  of  May  at  least  of  April,  should  be  crowned. 

He  had  been  up  since  dawn  directing  the  work  of 
the  negroes,  and  even  doing  with  his  own  hands  some 
things  which  required  special  skill.  A  bountiful 
lunch,  under  charge  of  Celeste  and  old  Simon,  the  but 
ler,  had  been  sent  over  to  the  spot  selected  for  his 
picnic. 

With  the  request  that  the  girls  wear  wreaths  came 
one  also  that  they  should  dress  in  white.  Joy's  flow 
ers  were  gardenias.  Zette  wound  them  into  a  thick 
white  chaplet;  but  this,  set  over  Joy's  abundant  hair, 
gave  much  too  heavy  an  effect.  Zette  lifted  off  the 
crown  impatiently.  "Wait,  missy,"  she  said;  "I  make 
it  pitty  now." 

Pulling  out  the  pins,  she  loosened  the  elaborate 
structure  which  she  had  just  built  up  with  such  care. 


228  MISTRESS  JOY 

Joy's  hair  was  almost  to  her  knees,  and  very  thick — a 
gjory  of  sunlit  bronze.  The  negress,  who  luxuriated 
in  its  light  and  warmth  as  in  the  sunshine  itself,  twisted 
the  shining  strangs  around  her  dark  fingers  and  drew 
the  mass  into  a  half  dozen  great,  loose  curled  tresses. 
Then,  narrowing  the  crown,  she  set  it  back  in  place, 
and  exclaimed  with  delight  over  her  own  handiwork, 
"Momzell  zess  lak  a  li'l  picshaw!  All  de  gemmem 
goin'  crezzy  'bout  dis  demoiselle  dis  day." 

And  Joyce  was  beautiful  in  her  white  dress,  crowned 
with  white  flowers,  while  the  same  waxen  blossoms 
formed  a  berthe  about  the  neck  of  her  half-low  gown. 

When  the  girls  reached  the  carriages  there  was  a 
wild  outburst  of  enthusiasm  over  Joy's  appearance,  in 
which  she  was  told  that  such  hair  as  hers  should  never 
be  bound  up,  that  it  was  as  wicked  as  prisoning  sun 
shine  to  do  so,  and  much  more  delightful  nonsense  of 
the  sort.  Then  ensued  a  chattering  of  delight  over 
the  decorations  of  the  vehicles.  Luis  had  had  his  boys 
trimming  them  with  fresh  flowers  since  dawn;  great 
bunches  of  yellow  roses  and  big,  odorous  violets  were 
knotted  on  the  headstalls  of  the  horses,  while  the  car 
riages  themselves  were  wreathed  with  flowers.  "Ah, 
but  just  wait,  mes  demoiselles,  until  you  see  the  boats," 
hinted  Neville,  with  pride.  "Lu  and  I  put  there  our 
best  skill,  because  't  would  show  best  and  last  longer." 

The  main  party  was  conveyed  in  a  flat-boat  or  barge, 
twenty  negro  rowers,  dressed  in  white,  keeping  time 
with  their  voices  to  the  movement  of  the  oars.  Their 
vessel  was  banked  around  the  edges  with  palmetto  and 
laurel  and  the  foliage  of  the  magnolia,  the  center  space 
being  occupied  by  an  awning  which  showed  the  United 
States  flag  and  the  French  flag  intertwined. 

It  chanced  that  the  only  French  flag  available  for 
the  purpose  was  a  monster  affair  designed  for  trim 
ming  the  house-front  during  the  parade  in  honor  of 


MISTRESS  JOY  229 

Louis  Philippe.  "Behold,  a  big,  big  flag  for  maman, 
and  a  poor,  little  wee  one  for  papa,"  whispered  Ausite, 
mischievously. 

The  flags,  however,  were  hardly  seen  for  the  lavish 
trimming  of  flowers,  greenery,  and  gray  moss.  Be 
neath  their  canopy  was  a  raised  dais,  and  on  it  a  seat 
covered  with  green  velvet.  This,  Luis  explained,  was 
for  the  Queen  of  the  Revels.  "  'T  is  deemed  best  that 
we  have  a  new  queen  every  hour,"  he  announced,  "that 
the  demoiselles  be  not  jealous  of  each  other;  and 
maman  shall  be  our  first."  He  bowed  gracefully,  and 
led  Madame  Valentine  to  the  throne. 

Seated  in  the  midst  of  the  barge,  she  looked  about 
on  her  children  and  the  children  of  her  friends.  There 
was  Toinette  Cassard,  whom  she  hoped  Luis  would 
marry.  'T  was  true  the  child  was  an  ugly,  dark  little 
thing,  but  such  a  pedigree — and  then,  the  money! 
And  there  were  the  sons  of  her  old  friends  to  whom 
she  would  like  to  give  her  daughters;  but  Ausite  had 
no  more  idea  of  ranging  herself  than  a  butterfly, 
and  Madeleine  often  talked  as  though  she  might  wed 
the  church  rather  than  the  youth  of  her  mother's 
selection. 

Madame's  glance  roved  to  Joyce — Joyce  the  myste 
rious,  Joyce  the  beautiful,  the  fascinating,  the  unread 
able — who  had  come  like  a  young  savage  out  of  the 
wilderness  and  taken  the  land  by  storm.  Really,  these 
modern  young  people  were  very  trying.  They  pre 
sumed  to  have  ideas  and  preferences  and  fancies  of 
their  own.  She  was  sure  she  never  did  so  when  she 
was  a  girl. 

She  closed  her  eyes  with  a  little  sigh.  Presently 
Neville's  fresh,  young  lips  were  pressed  on  her  hand, 
and  his  irresistible  boy's  voice  was  asking :  "What  are 
your  commands,  O  queen?" 

Smiling  indulgently  she  answered,  "I  command  you 


23o  MISTRESS  JOY 

all  to  be  happy,"  and  composed  herself  for  a  brief 
nap.  After  all,  a  picnic  was  quite  a  comfortable  affair. 

It  seemed  a  pity  that  the  picnickers  could  not  see 
their  barge  from  the  outside.  The  flower-trimmed 
boat,  gay  with  fluttering  streamers  and  flags,  and  the 
white-robed,  wreath-crowned  occupants,  repeated  and 
magnified  in  the  water,  made  a  beautiful  picture. 

They  danced,  they  laughed,  they  sang,  they  flirted ; 
they  tried  in  every  way  to  follow  madame's  command 
and  be  happy.  Joyce  had  her  brief  reign  as  queen. 
Luis  got  his  opportunity,  when  he  installed  her,  to  tell 
her  that  she  was  queen  of  his  heart  as  well. 

When  Madeleine  was  enthroned,  she  declared  that 
she  desired  her  position  of  authority  solely  that  she 
might  command  Cousin  Joyous  to  sing.  Joyce  de 
murred.  She  knew,  as  she  told  them,  only  hymns  and 
a  few  old  English  ballads  which  her  father  was  used 
to  sing. 

Being  laughingly  answered  that  the  queen's  com 
mand  might  not  be  gainsaid,  she  brought  out  her  best 
to  please  them,  and  the  woes  of  "Cruel  Barbara  Allen," 
the  praise  of  the  "Nut  Brown  Mayde,"  and  the 
tragic  tale  of  "Edom  o'  Gordon"  charmed  her  hearers 
mightily. 

"  'Now  all  young  maidens  warning  take  from  Cruel 
Barbara  Allen,'  "  quoted  Luis  in  a  whispered  aside  as 
they  disembarked. 

Luncheon  was  spread  for  them  in  a  grove.  Joy's 
defense  against  Luis  was  Neville.  An  experienced 
woman  would  never  have  employed  it;  but  to  Joy,  the 
stripling  of  sixteen  was  still  a  child.  When  they  were 
taking  their  places  around  the  improvised  table  for 
lunch,  she  noted  that  Luis  was  arranging  matters  so 
that  he  might  sit  beside  her.  To  avoid  this,  she  called 
the  younger  brother,  and  bade  him  take  that  place. 

Nothing  daunted,  Luis  came  over  after  he  had  seen 


MISTRESS   JOY  231 

all  of  his  guests  seated,  and,  putting  his  hand  on  Nev 
ille's  shoulder,  commanded,  "Get  up,  little  boy;  't  is 
my  place." 

Neville  turned  to  him  a  face  white  with  passion. 
"Is  't  so,  mon  capitaine?  Then  take  it  if  you  can,"  he 
retorted  insolently. 

Luis's,  face  darkened.  "Get  up !"  he  repeated,  in  a 
fierce  undertone. 

"That  will  I  not,"  answered  his  brother. 

Luis's  hand  gripped  the  little  cane  he  carried  and 
snapped  it.  "I  will  flog  you,  sir,  when  I  get  you 
home,"  he  said  thickly.  "You  are  too  young  .to  fight 
like  a  gentleman." 

Simple  horror  had  kept  Joyce  silent  until  now.  She 
looked  appealingly  across  to  where  Madame  Valentine 
sat,  serenely  unconscious.  'T  was  I  asked  Neville  to 
sit  here,"  she  protested  finally,  in  distress.  "How  can 
you  speak  so,  Cousin  Luis?" 

"Oh,  any  command  of  the  queen's !"  rejoined  Luis. 
"May  I  bring  my  chair  and  sit  at  your  left,  then,  maj 
esty?  An  we  move  a  bit  we  may  all  sit  here." 

Joy  was  sure,  from  the  black  looks  which  traveled 
past  her,  that  the  quarrel  between  the  brothers  was 
postponed,  not  ended.  Her  heart  sickened  at  the 
thought.  To  her  eyes,  shocked  and  sorrowful,  the  day 
was  clouded,  the  gold  of  its  sunshine  tarnished.  For 
all  the  beauty  she  saw  in  them,  the  gaily  trimmed  boats 
might  as  well  have  been  funeral  barges. 

On  the  way  home  she  found  courage  to  speak  to  Luis 
of  the  matter.  He  was  the  elder  and  more  responsi 
ble  of  the  two.  "Faith,  sweet  cousin,"  he  answered, 
"women  should  not  be  so  fair  and  so  alluring  if  they 
do  not  wish  men  to  fall  out  and  quarrel  over  them." 

"Oh,  indeed,  indeed,  Luis,"  protested  Joy,  "it  breaks 
my  heart  to  hear  you  hint  that  the  quarrel  was  about 
me.  You  only  do  it  to  flatter  me,  do  you  not,  cousin  ? 


232  MISTRESS  JOY 

I  am  not  used  to  consider  whether  I  be  fair  or  no ;  but 
if  I  thought  you  in  earnest  I  should  wish  I  were  old 
and  gray  and  toothless,  so  that  none  would  ever  care  to 
sit  by  me." 

"So  do  not  I,  then,  fair  coz,"  answered  Luis,  gaily. 
"Be  a  little  kinder  to  me — not  cousinly  kind,  you  un 
derstand,  sweetheart,  but  kind  in  the  way  I  crave — and, 
faith,  I  will  not  thrash  the  boy." 

Ah,  the  gilt  was  wearing  in  great  patches  off  poor 
Joy's  gingerbread! 


CHAPTER  XXI 


HEN  Joy  reached  the  dinner-table  one 
day,  she  found  a  family  council  in 
progress.  It  was  about  four  weeks 
after  her  arrival  in  New  Orleans. 
There  was  much  stir  over  the  young 
Duke  d'Orleans,  afterward  Louis 
1  Philippe  of  France. 
This  prince  had  arrived  in  the  city  some  two  weeks 
previous,  in  company  with  Don  Manuel  Gayoso  de 
Lemos.  The  don,  ex-governor  of  the  Natchez  district, 
was  now  to  succeed  as  governor  of  the  Louisiana  prov 
ince. 

To  the  Spaniards,  young  Orleans  was  a  Bourbon; 
to  the  French — even  republican  French — he  was  dear 
as  coming  from  that  country  which  is  to  this  day 
dearer  than  the  land  of  their  adoption. 

Namesake  of  a  Due  d'Orleans,  the  town,  and  more 
especially  its  French  population,  then  its  wealthiest  and 
most  influential  class,  was  wild  with  enthusiasm  over 
the  duke's  visit.  On  his  first  arrival,  he  had  remained 
but  a  week,  and  was  now  gone,  with  his  suite,  to  the 
plantation  of  a  wealthy  Frenchman  to  be  entertained 
for  a  few  days.  It  was  their  return  to  New  Orleans 
which  was  being  vivaciously,  not  to  say  stormily,  dis 
cussed  at  her  uncle's  table. 

Madame  Valentine  was  a  Frenchwoman  to  her  fin 
ger-tips,  a  loyal  adherent  of  the  house  of  Bourbon., 
From  her  family,  the  LeBlancs,  came  the  enormous 

233 


234  MISTRESS   JOY 

estates  which  made  Henri  Valentine  the  richest  man  of 
his  time  in  New  Orleans,  if  not  in  the  entire  province. 

That  her  beloved  prince  should  return  to  the  city 
and  not  be  feted  and  honored  according  to  his  deserts 
was  a  thing  which  madame  could  not  endure.  Joy 
had  never  before  seen  her  aunt  angry;  but  now  it  was 
evident  the  lady  was  in  a  towering  passion. 

"But,  my  dear,  't  would  not  have  been  appropriate," 
urged  her  husband.  "I  myself,  who  esteem  the  prince, 
cannot  see  how  the  United  States  authorities  could 
have  ordered  public  demonstrations  of  any  sort  in 
honor  of  one  of  the  house  of  Bourbon." 

These  well-meant  words  appeared  about  to  precipi 
tate  a  rupture  in  the  Valentine  family.  Madame  arose, 
drew  herself  up  very  tall  indeed,  and  Joy  observed  for 
the  first  time  how  handsome  and  imposing  a  woman 
she  really  was.  "Very  well,  Henri  Valentine;  you 
may  quote  a  canaille  government  to  me,  an  't  please 
you" — ("But  I  do  not,  my  love,"  put  in  her  husband 
in  swift  parenthesis) — "you  may  be  willing  that  only 
the  Spaniard  do  a  fitting  part  in  the  matter.  I  and 
my  children  will  honor  a  royal  prince  of  France. 
'T  will  not  be  the  first  one  hath  lodged  with  the  Le- 
Blancs.  The  Due  d'Orleans  shall  come  to  my  house, 
if  he  will." 

"As  a  private  citizen,  I  have  n't  the  slightest  objec 
tion  in  the  world,"  put  in  her  husband  again,  "to  en 
tertain  the  prince." 

"And  I  will  give  him  a  ball,"  she  concluded.  "I 
will  show  these  beggarly  Americans  how  to  treat  roy 
alty,"  and  she  swept  out  of  the  room,  her  head  held 
very  high  indeed. 

Ausite  and  Madeleine,  relieved  from  the  constraint 
of  her  presence,  embraced  each  other  and  Joy  in  trans 
ports  at  the  thought  of  a  ball  and  a  real  prince. 

"Oh,  the  dear  maman !    Oh,  the  charming  maman !" 


MISTRESS  JOY  235 

they  cried  over  and  over  again ;  then,  running  to  their 
father  with  that  amiability  which  was  to  Joy  one  of 
their  greatest  charms,  they  inquired,  "You  are  not 
angry,  are  you,  mon  pere?  You  want  to  entertain  the 
dear  prince,  too?  Ah,  we  will  make  a  good  French 
man  of  the  dear  little  papa  in  time !" 

Luis,  an  officer  in  the  Spanish  army,  but  always  a 
Frenchman  at  heart,  seconded  his  mother's  plans  en 
thusiastically. 

Ausite  and  Madeleine  dragged  Joy  off  directly  after 
dinner.  "Oh,  the  frocks!"  cried  Ausite,  clasping  her 
hands  and  rolling  up  her  big,  black  eyes  with  an  al 
most  religious  fervor.  "Will  there  be  anything  fine 
enough  in  New  Orleans,  think  you,  sweet  sister?  O 
Madeleine!"  she  shrieked,  with  a  comical  drop  of  dis 
may  in  her  tones,  "you  are  the  eldest  demoiselle  of  the 
house  of  Valentine.  'T  is  you  the  prince  will  dance 
with,  and  I  shall  only  get  to  worship  him  afar  off." 

Madeleine  nodded,  and  began  practising  a  few  airy 
dancing-steps,  ending  with  a  grand  curtsy  in  which 
she  sank  almost  to  the  floor,  veiling  her  big  eyes  de 
murely  and  murmuring,  "Mon  prince,"  as  she  grace 
fully  recovered  herself. 

The  sight  of  her  satisfaction  so  irritated  Ausite  that 
she  pounced  upon  her  and  shook  her,  crying,  "Horrid 
old  maid!  Why  art  not  wed,  and  out  of  the  way?  I 
want  to  be  Mamselle  Valentine." 

"Well,"  returned  Madeleine,  composedly,  "here  's 
sweet  Cousin  Joyous;  she  's  older  than  either  of  us." 
(Madeleine  was  seventeen  and  Ausite  fifteen.)  "Old 
maids!  Cousin  Joyous  was  an  old  maid  five  years 
ago.  Let  her  be  demoiselle  de  Valentine,  and  dance 
with  the  prince."  Ausite  agreed  rather  doubtfully; 
Madeleine's  generosity  in  such  matters  went  far  be 
yond  her  own. 

"But  I   cannot  dance  at  all,"   objected  Joy,   who 


236  MISTRESS  JOY 

scarcely  understood  how  great  the  sacrifice  if  this  thing 
were  actually  done  for  her. 

"But  't  is  an  art  one  may  learn,"  urged  Madeleine. 
"  'Sieur  Pas  Seul  will  soon  set  that  right.  I  shall 
speak  to  maman  about  it,"  she  added  seriously.  "Me- 
thinks  we  should  offer  the  prince  the  best  we  have ;  and, 
sweet  cousin,  were  I  a  man,  I  know  right  well  whom 
I  should  call  best  among  the  demoiselles  de  Valentine." 

Down  in  a  cross  alley  leading  from  Royal  Street 
there  stood,  in  the  year  of  grace  1798,  a  low,  dingy 
little  building  abutting  directly  upon  the  street.  It 
was  a  mean  structure,  yet  it  was  frequented  by  the 
youth,  fashion,  and  beauty  of  the  town.  Carefully 
wrapped  young  beauties  descended  from  elegant  vo- 
lantes  before  its  dingy  portals  at  all  hours  of  the  day; 
and  in  the  evening  the  most  dapper  of  beaux  might 
be  seen  lifting  its  tarnished  knocker. 

This  was  the  home  of  Monsieur  Legras,  playfully 
nicknamed  by  his  pupils  'Sieur  Pas  Seul.  The  old 
man  had  been  ballet-master  at  the  Comedie  Franchise. 
He  had  come  to  the  New  World  to  mend  his  fortunes, 
and  had  marred  them.  But  here  in  New  Orleans, 
though  he  no  longer  trained  premieres  dansenses  to  daz 
zle  an  audience,  he  was  the  beloved  instructor  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  graceful  women  in  the  world,  as 
he  was  wont  affectionately  to  call  them.  The  dance 
was  a  passion  with  the  little,  brown,  withered  French 
man.  It  was  to  him  what  poetry  is  to  the  poet,  or 
music  to  the  musician.  A  docile  pupil,  the  faultless 
rendering  of  a  difficult  series  of  steps,  a  perfect  pose — 
these  moved  him  almost  to  tears.  On  the  other  hand, 
inelegance,  awkwardness,  and,  worst  of  all,  a  lack  of 
veneration  for  the  traditions  of  the  dance,  aroused  him 
to  a  sort  of  frenzy. 

He  had  taught  Ausite  and  Madeleine  since  they  were 
wee  toddlers  beginning,  as  most  Creole  girls  do,  to 


MISTRESS  JOY  237 

dance  and  to  walk  at  one  and  the  same  time.  When 
it  was  suggested  to  Joy  that  she  learn  to  dance,  she 
protested  in  dismay.  Then  she  began  to  reason  upon 
it,  and  some  good  man  has  said  that  "he  who  reasons 
upon  a  question  of  right  and  wrong  is  already  damned." 
Be  that  as  it  may,  Joy,  after  thoroughly  canvassing 
the  matter  in  her  own  mind,  recollected  that  Father 
Tobias  had  desired  her  while  she  was  with  her  uncle's 
family  to  conform  to  their  customs,  and  to  test  herself 
by  living  their  life  as  fully  as  possible.  She  decided 
then  promptly  that  she  would  take  the  instruction  of 
fered  her. 

Pastor  Valentine  had  not  realized  the  impression 
such  words  might  make  upon  his  daughter's  mind. 
That  things  which  had  long  lost,  or  never  contained, 
charms  for  him  should  tempt  her — this  he  had  expected. 
But  that  she  should  show  herself  so  ill  prepared  to  meet 
these  temptations  he  could  not  have  conceived.  Joyce 
was  as  radical  in  the  doing  as  he  was  vague  in  the 
instructing. 

Tante  sighed  a  little  regretfully  when  the  matter 
was  broached  to  her.  "She  is  indeed,  methinks,  some 
thing  to  offer  a  king;  but,  my  little  demoiselles,  you 
have  rated  your  importance  quite  too  high.  I  know 
not  what  is  coming  to  the  young  people  of  this  day. 
Meseems  they  are  all  stark  mad  on  the  subject  of  them 
selves.  'T  is  the  fat  old  maman  who  entertains  the 
duke,  pray  remember,  and  't  is  she  who  will  open  the 
ball  with  him.  But  if  I  read  the  princes  of  Bourbon 
aright,  so  high  and  so  bright  a  head  as  our  cousin's 
here  will  not  escape  his  eye.  Why  was  not  one  of 
you  a  blonde,  you  little  blackamoors?  The  pere  is 
blonde  enough." 

"Oh,  well,  maman,"  quoth  Madeleine,  "you  have  an 
assortment  of  blonde  daughters  coming  on.  Our  little 
Hortense  is  nigh  as  fair  as  cousin  Joyous.  When 


238  MISTRESS   JOY 

Ausite  is  wed  and  I  am  in  a  convent,  you  will  have 
blondes  of  all  shades  for  sale." 

"Tiens!  little  one,"  said  madame,  affectionately;  "we 
shall  hear  no  more  of  convents  when  your  prince 
comes." 

"Lord  send  him  soon !"  cried  Ausite,  flippantly.  "I 
am  tired  of  playing  second  violin." 

"Fly  away,  birdies,  and  take  little  cousin  with  you," 
smiled  madame.  "Celeste  may  accompany  you  to  M. 
Legras's,  if  neither  Xante  Leonie  nor  Tante  Sophie  can 
do  so  this  morning.  Fail  not  to  wear  your  pretty 
frocks  and  carry  flowers.  The  poor  old  man  so  rages 
when  you  attend  in  careless  toilets." 

The  girls,  to  Joy's  great  surprise,  were  dressed  by 
their  maids  as  though  for  a  fete.  "  'Sieur  Pas  Seul," 
they  explained,  insisted  that  dancing  was  a  matter  of 
emotion  as  well  as  muscle,  and  that  no  lady  could  learn 
to  dance  as  a  lady  should  unless  en  grande  tcnue. 

Maids  attended,  carrying  bags  with  special  slippers, 
extra  scarfs,  smelling-bottles,  and  dozens  of  other  tri 
fles.  Tante  Sophie,  a  seventh  or  eighth  cousin  of 
madame's,  and  a  gentle,  faded,  self-effacing  little 
person,  proved  to  be  at  liberty,  and  accompanied 
them. 

Though  the  distance  was  not  more  than  three  blocks, 
the  volante  was  brought  around  and  the  trip  made  in 
state.  The  girls  greeted  very  warmly  the  bright-eyed 
little  old  man  who  met  them,  violin  in  hand,  and  pre 
sented  their  cousin  with  much  pride.  A  half-dozen 
demoiselles,  some  near  their  own  age,  but  mostly 
younger,  were  leaving  as  they  arrived.  Ausite  and 
Madeleine  appeared  to  know  them  all,  and  Joy  went 
through  the  ordeal  of  more  introductions,  an  ordeal  to 
which  she  was  becoming  used. 

When  'Sieur  Pas  Seul  was  informed  that  the  tall 
cousin  came  as  a  pupil,  he  looked  her  over  rather 


MISTRESS  JOY  239 

doubtfully.  That  upright,  almost  majestic  young  fig 
ure  promised  more  strength  than  suppleness. 

Ausite  had  already  been  slippered  by  her  maid. 
Now  she  was  capering  madly  about  the  room,  taking 
steps  which  seemed  to  Joy  to  be  as  entirely  without 
plan  or  forethought  as  the  erratic  darts  of  a  drifting 
butterfly,  but  which  wove  themselves  finally  into  a 
rhythmic  and  charming  dance. 

This  slight,  dainty  little  Creole  maid  appeared,  as 
Zette  admiringly  whispered,  not  to  have  a  bone  in  her 
body.  She  bent,  she  swayed,  she  caught  a  tambourine 
from  the  maid's  hand  and,  dropping  back  with  it,  struck 
it  lightly  upon  the  floor.  Then,  like  a  blossoming 
branch  tossed  by  the  wind,  she  flung  forward  and 
tapped  the  tambourine  upon  the  floor  just  in  front  of 
her  two  little  feet. 

Joyce  watched  these  evolutions,  pleasing  as  they 
were,  with  a  sort  of  terror.  Would  she  be  expected  to 
do  all  that  ?  She  felt  that  she  never,  never  could  learn 
it ;  and  then,  with  this  conviction,  there  came  a  dogged 
resolution  to  master  these  things  or  perish  in  the  at 
tempt. 

The  thought  that  Ausite — little,  laughing,  foolish 
Ausite — was  passed  mistress  of  arts  whose  first  sylla 
ble  she  knew  not,  was  intolerable.  She  had  been 
praised  for  many  things.  Now  the  feverish  unrest 
which  assails  the  novice  in  a  life  of  pleasure,  the  aspira 
tion  to  excel  everywhere,  to  dominate  everybody,  laid 
hold  upon  her.  She  would  dance — she  would  dance 
better  than  Ausite  or  Madeleine.  And  with  this  rash 
resolve  she  turned  to  'Sieur  Legras,  who  was  talking 
gravely  to  her  cousin. 

"Mamselle  has  never  danced  at  all?"  he  inquired 
dolefully.  "And  she  s'all  learn  it  all  in  two  veeks? 
C'est  impossible,  mamselles."  He  shrugged  his  shoul 
ders,  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  smiled  deprecatingly. 


240  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Oh,  but  I  will  try  very,  very  hard,"  urged  Joy, 
eagerly.  She  had  quite  forgotten  that  she  once 
thought  this  dancing  might  be  deadly  sin ;  she  was  re 
solved,  if  necessary,  to  practise  all  night  and  every 
night  till  The  Day  arrived. 

"Mamselle  can  be  teach  to  pose,"  suggested  the 
old  'sieur.  "Ah,  zo  beautiful  she  could  pose!" 

"Pose?"  asked  Joy,  hopeful  that  she  had  found 
something  possible  to  her.  "How  is  that  done,  'sieur?" 

The  old  dancing-master  laid  down  his  violin,  gazed 
at  her  thoughtfully,  then  came  across  to  where  she 
stood.  Madeleine  and  Ausite  both  looked  on  with 
much  interest,  while  the  maids  and  Tante  Sophie 
watched  the  performance  eagerly.  "Zo,  now,"  he  di 
rected,  taking  her  head  lightly  between  the  tips  of  his 
fingers.  "Raise  ze  chin  a  leetle,  an'  look  t'roo  ze  win 
dow  at  ze  sky." 

With  a  deft  movement  he  shifted  her  shoulders  into 
better  position,  then  brought  a  rapier  from  the  wall, 
put  it  in  her  hand,  and  lifted  her  arm  so  that  she  bran 
dished  the  blade  above  her  head.  "O-o-o!  But  not 
zo  steef,  mamselle.  'T  is  a  young  queen  now,  which 
lead  her  armies.  Hark!  ze  trumpet  sound." 

He  picked  up  his  violin,  and  drew  from  it  a  martial 
strain.  "Listen,"  he  said;  "ze  trumpet  call  to  victoree 
or  date." 

Music  was  a  language  Joy  could  understand.  The 
dingy  little  room  faded  away  before  her  eyes.  Once 
more  she  stood  in  the  flicker  of  firelight  on  the  hearth 
at  home,  and  confronted  death  with  upraised  rifle. 

She  was  recalled  to  the  time  and  place  by  the  'sieur's 
voice  crying,  "Magnifique  eet  ees!"  Tante  Sophie  ex 
claiming,  "Oh,  how  grand  she  is!"  and  Ausite  whim 
pering,  "Yes,  but  she  's  terrible,  too.  I  shall  be  afraid 
of  her  at  night  after  this." 

She  dropped  the  sword-point,  laughed,  and  felt  ex- 


MISTRESS  JOY  241 

tremely  silly.  After  all,  if  this  was  dancing,  she 
thought  it  a  very  simple  play  in  which  to  excel. 

Poor  Joyce,  she  little  knew  what  was  before  her! 
After  this  bit  of  triumph  there  came  a  laborious  and  a 
terrible  hour,  in  which  she  was  patiently  instructed  in 
the  primary  and  fundamental  dancing-steps.  In  the 
course  of  this  session  'Sieur  Pas  Seul  was  almost  re 
duced  to  imbecility.  He  rumpled  his  gray  hair  fran 
tically  (Ausite  declared  he  tore  it),  and  just  when  Joyce 
was  brought  to  the  verge  of  wrathful  hysterics  he  an 
nounced,  with  a  sigh,  "Dat  vill  do." 

"Cannot  she  learn  it,  'Sieur  Legras?"  inquired 
Madeleine,  in  the  hushed  voice  of  dismay.  She  knew 
the  weather  signs  of  the  old  man's  countenance. 

"I  zink  she  learn  it  zomtime,"  gasped  the  dancing- 
master;  "maybe  ven  she  try  vair'  hard." 

"Oh,  but  she  must  learn  in  two  weeks — a  minuet, 
anyhow." 

"Zo?"  inquired  the  teacher,  in  a  tone  which  was 
anything  but  encouraging,  and  the  directions,  the  re 
proofs,  the  scrapings  of  the  violin,  and  Joy's  awkward 
attempts  began  all  over  again. 

This  time  the  lesson  was  shorter.  "Now,"  said  the 
'sieur,  in  concluding  it,  "eef  you  vill  vork  vair'  hard 
and  practeeze  vair'  mooch,  I  zink  I  try  teach  you  ze 
sword  minuet.  Zee,"  he  added,  with  great  generos 
ity,  for  a  pupil  like  Joy  was  a  sad  trial  to  his  soul, 
"zat  beautiful,  bright  head  vill  be  charmante  ven  eet 
coom  down  ze  line  under  ze  beeg  steel  blades — zhust 
a  leetle,  leetle  dust  of  powdaire  vill  turn  heem  to  ze 
pure  gold." 

That  night  at  bedtime,  after  Joy  had  turned  Ausite 
and  Madeleine  out  of  her  room,  she  practised,  and  prac 
tised,  and  practised  the  steps  which  had  been  taught 
her,  till  too  weary  to  practise  more.  And  when  she 
laid  her  tired  young  limbs  upon  the  bed  and  closed  her 

16 


242  MISTRESS  JOY 

eyes,  it  was  to  practise  them  over  in  her  dreams.  At 
dawn  she  was  awake  and  practising  again.  And  Zette, 
who  could  dance  all  the  wild,  half-savage  negro  dances, 
and  had  learned  from  attending  upon  her  young  mis 
tresses  all  the  steps  they  knew,  acted  as  coach. 

The  household  was  never  astir  before  ten  o'clock. 
Chocolate  was  served  in  bed,  but  Joy  was  too  busy 
and  too  desperately  resolute  to  take  hers.  So  she 
bowed,  and  stepped,  and  bent,  and  wheeled,  and  curt 
sied,  every  muscle  aching,  her  head  swimming,  her 
hands  trembling,  till  she  heard  Madeleine's  light  step 
coming  toward  the  door. 

Then  she  sat  down,  and,  reaching  to  the  little  stand 
beside  her  bed,  picked  up  a  book  by  way  of  assuming  a 
deceptive  air  of  leisure.  This  volume  proved  to  be  her 
long-neglected  Bible.  Madeleine's  pretty  head  peeped 
in  at  the  door.  She  glanced  at  the  volume,  and,  saying 
reverently,  "I  will  not  disturb  your  devotions,  cousin," 
retired. 

Joy  bent  her  crimson  face  above  the  sacred  pages, 
and  wept  for  shame.  Was  this  creature,  so  greedy  of 
admiration  and  dominion,  to  whom  no  labors  were 
tedious  and  painful  if  they  but  enabled  her  to  flaunt 
and  to  outshine — was  she  indeed  the  woman  who,  six 
months  ago,  had  been  so  absolutely  sure  of  herself?  to 
whom  right  and  wrong  had  seemed  so  perfectly  distinct 
and  clear  that  none  need  err?  She  had  descended  to 
hypocrisy,  had  used  the  sacred  Word  to  cloak  light  be 
havior,  and  she  shuddered  a  little  at  the  remembrance 
that  she  had  not  for  days  read  the  Book. 

Was  she  that  woman  who  had  dared  fancy  herself 
the  instrument  which,  in  divine  hands,  might  effect  the 
conversion  of  other  souls?  She  had  been  so  strong 
in  her  own  conceit  when  she  lectured  and  exhorted 
Jessop,  she  had  dared  to  pronounce  him  weak  and  un 
stable;  and  now,  at  the  first  touch  of  temptation,  she 


MISTRESS  JOY  243 

had  fallen  quite  away  from  all  her  early  traditions, 
hopes,  plans,  ambitions,  beliefs.  She  had  forgotten 
even  Jessop  himself. 

She  wondered  at  her  own  abandoned  moral  condi 
tion,  yet  with  a  dull,  impersonal  curiosity  which  prom 
ised  no  speedy  amendment.  She  would  go  on  to  the 
end  with  this  which  she  had  chosen. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Joyce,  of  her  thoroughness 
in  well  or  ill  doing,  that,  having  mastered  her  emotion, 
she  laid  her  Bible  back  upon  the  stand,  and,  lifting  her 
skirts,  began  once  more  the  monotonous  one,  two,  three 
— one,  two,  three. 

To  such  good  purpose  did  she  practise — though  ever 
with  that  haunting  doubt  that  the  little  feet  whose 
beauty  Jessop  had  been  first  to  notice  were,  with  each 
measured  step,  traveling  the  certain  way  to  perdition — 
that  the  'sieur,  when  her  next  lesson  came,  exclaimed 
with  delight  over  the  progress  she  had  made. 

The  way  in  which  these  people  among  whom  she 
now  was  carried  their  religion  along  side  by  side  with 
the  frivolities  of  every-day  life  was  a  matter  of  con 
tinual  wonder  to  Joyce.  She  had  gone  with  the  girls 
when  they  went  to  the  cathedral  to  confess.  They 
tripped  lightly  in,  chatting  of  balls  or  beaux  and  frocks 
and  furbelows  up  to  the  very  last  moment.  When 
they  came  out,  it  was  to  go  with  maman  to  a  fete  cham- 
petre  at  a  great  house  over  by  the  river,  where  both 
girls  danced  tirelessly.  Yet  she  perceived  the  confes 
sion  to  be  a  genuine  religious  observance. 

Tante  said  a  dozen  times  daily,  "Now  don't  forget 
that,  petites,  when  you  go  to  confession."  The  words 
might  be  preceded  or  followed  by  some  trivial  house 
hold  direction,  or  a  light  jest  even,  but  Tante  intended 
they  should  be  obeyed,  and  obeyed  they  were. 

While  Joy  had  led  what  most  people — what  she  her 
self — would  have  believed  to  be  a  much  more  religious 


244  MISTRESS    JOY 

life  than  these  relatives  of  hers,  she  felt  that  she  had 
always  held  her  religion  a  thing  apart,  that  she  had 
never  woven  it  into  the  fabric  of  her  daily  living  as 
they  did. 

Another  thing  which  abashed  her  in  those  whose 
creed  she  had  been  taught  to  regard  as  error,  was  their 
simple,  uncondemning  attitude.  Uncle  Henri  was  a 
lax  Catholic,  Tante  Sophie  a  very  strict  and  devout  one ; 
and  yet,  to  Joy's  great  surprise,  the  sister-in-law  did  not 
appear  to  think  'Sieur  Valentine  in  need  of  discipline, 
nor  did  'Sieur  Valentine  hold  Tante  Sophie  unneces 
sarily  zealous. 

There  was  a  warm,  sweet,  kindly  tolerance  in  all 
their  thoughts  of  each  other,  which  Joy  was  sometimes 
near  believing  to  be  the  virtue  of  all  virtues.  In  after 
years,  when  time  had  helped  her  to  understanding,  she 
knew  such  tolerance  was  indeed  approved  by  Him  who 
said,  "The  greatest  of  these  is  charity." 

Had  she  been  narrow,  cold,  hard,  overbearing,  too 
zealous  in  her  crude  self-righteousness?  She  began  to 
think  so.  She  was  learning  that  one  need  not  become 
a  Catholic  to  love  and  revere  the  Catholic  faith,  to  find 
the  face  of  God  behind  the  picture  which  any  creed 
might  make  of  Him,  and  to  be  neither  ashamed  nor 
afraid  that  she  did  so. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

[HE  Valentine  household  was  in  a 
state  of  modified  uproar.  It  required 
near  upon  a  week  of  these  conditions 
to  prepare  for  the  grand  ball.  Ma 
dame  Valentine  was  an  able  woman, 
but  an  entertainment  of  such  magni 
tude  as  this  would  tax  the  resources 
of  any  private  house ;  indeed,  our  country  then  boasted 
few  in  which  it  could  have  been  attempted.  In  1798 
the  florist  and  caterer  were  unknown  auxiliaries  to 
the  entertainer.  The  floral  decorating,  the  enormous 
amount  of  cookery,  must  all  be  done  under  one  roof, 
and  largely  by  the  servants  of  the  household.  The 
wealth  which  Madame  Valentine  had  brought  her 
husband  included  three  extensive  plantations.  Every 
fruit  which  the  section  produced  was  raised  upon  these 
plantations,  and  'Madame  Valentine's  store-room  was 
furnished  with  jars  of  orange  conserve  and  marmalade, 
flasks  of  fine  liqueurs,  preserves,  jellies,  and  dried  and 
candied  fruits  beyond  computation. 

As  the  date  of  the  ball  approached,  Tante's  temper 
became  extremely  brittle.  Joy,  realizing  her  useless- 
ness,  effaced  herself  as  much  as  possible,  and  remained 
in  her  own  room,  practising  ceaselessly  upon  the  steps 
of  the  minuet,  which  'Sieur  Pas  Seul  admitted  she 
now  did  fairly  well.  She  was  learning  also,  under 
Madeleine's  direction,  how  to  hold  her  hands,  how  to 
make  the  grand  curtsy,  how  to  enter  and  leave  a  ball- 

245 


246  MISTRESS  JOY 

room,  how  to  manage  her  skirts  when  she  sat  down, 
and  her  scarf  at  all  times. 

It  had  appeared,  before  this  question  of  the  ball  came 
up,  that  Joy  knew  very  well  how  to  behave  herself  as 
a  young  demoiselle  should;  but  now  everything  had 
to  be  pulled  to  pieces  and  made  over  in  honor  of  the 
duke.  The  girl  came  to  feel  finally  that  she  knew  abso 
lutely  nothing,  and  was  entirely  unpresentable. 

She  had  at  first  proposed  to  wear  on  this  occasion 
the  ball-gown  purchased  for  a  rout  given  by  one  of  the 
Spanish  officials  early  in  her  visit;  but  Tante  forbade 
this  almost  fiercely.  "My  two  chicks,"  she  said,  "are 
having  as  pretty  frocks  made  for  them  as  money  will 
buy.  If  you  do  not  have  as  fine,  or  finer,  everybody 
will  surmise,  and  I  shall  feel,  that 't  is  because  you  sym 
pathize  with  the  canaille,  and  care  not  to  do  honor 
to  a  royal  duke  of  France."  This  closed  the  argu 
ment,  and  Tante  felt  free  to  design  and  purchase  such 
a  costume  as  she  deemed  fitting  for  her  beautiful 
niece. 

Madeleine's  dress  was  a  rich  white  silk,  brocaded 
with  great  bunches  of  blush-roses  tied  with  love-knots 
of  pale  blue.  Its  long,  pointed  waist  had  a  stomacher 
of  pink  crush-roses  set  thickly  together  and  matching 
in  hue  those  brocaded  upon  the  skirt.  A  dainty  wreath 
of  miniature  roses,  with  their  buds,  was  to  be  used  for 
the  hair.  Maman  did  not  approve  of  powder  for 
young  girls,  so  that  it  was  only  after  much  entreaty 
that  Madeleine  received  permission  to  wear  "just 
enough  to  make  her  eyes  bright." 

Ausite's  frock  was,  she  sulkily  said,  a  "silly,  miss- 
ish  thing."  It  was  an  exquisitely  embroidered  muslin 
from  India,  with  cherry  ribbons.  Madame  Valentine 
well  appreciated  the  value  of  consistency  in  the  dressing 
of  young  girls.  The  slippers,  laces,  gloves,  and  jewels 
which  formed  the  accessories  of  her  daughters'  cos- 


MISTRESS  JOY  247 

tumes  were  irreproachable,  and  through  everything 
ran  the  note  of  girlish  simplicity. 

With  Joy,  who  was  twenty — quite  mature,  accord 
ing  to  Creole  ideas — she  felt  that  she  could  be  more 
lavish.  "I  would  I  had  a  poet  to  help  me  design  your 
frock,  my  dear.  It  shall  be  something  really  like  you, 
something  to  put  those  who  see  it  in  mind  of  fresh 
wild  things.  'T  is  my  feeling  when  I  look  at  you  that 
I  want  to  make  your  wear  become  you  as  the  leaves 
become  the  young  trees  in  the  forest." 

The  ball  gown,  when  it  came  home,  almost  fright 
ened  Joy  with  its  costliness  and  its  beauty.  Her  aunt 
had  chosen  a  soft,  heavy  silk  of  a  silvery-green  tint. 
Around  the  edges  and  in  trails  up  the  breadths  of  the 
skirt,  ran  a  thick  wrought  garland  of  deep-green  leaves 
and  creamy-white  blossoms.  There  were  silver  threads 
and  tiny  artificial  pearls  mingled  with  the  embroidery, 
so  that  the  effect,  while  one  of  dewy  freshness,  was 
wonderfully  rich  and  brilliant. 

Joyce  Valentine  was  lithe  but  not  thin.  Slender  she 
was,  but  with  the  slimness  of  youth  only.  There  were 
bones,  one  knew,  to  be  covered,  but  they  were  guessed 
at,  not  seen.  The  long  waist,  which  fitted  her  pliant 
young  body  as  the  calyx  clasps  the  flower  bud,  was  en 
tirely  plain,  except  for  a  massive  garland  and  stomacher 
of  the  same  creamy-white  blossoms.  In  this  case  they 
were  not  embroidered,  but,  formed  of  pearls  and  silver 
bullion,  stood  quite  free  from  the  fabric.  The  slippers 
were  white,  with  scarlet  heels,  the  long  gloves  a  marvel 
of  pearl  embroidery  and  inset  lace.  For  her  hair,  upon 
which  madame  decided  to  permit,  as  'Sieur  Pas  Seul 
had  suggested,  barely  a  dust  of  shining  powder,  there 
was  a  single  silver  lily  amid  its  own  gleaming  dark 
leaves. 

This  dress  haunted  Joy's  dreams.  There  seemed 
something  significant,  almost  prophetic,  in  the  fact 


248  MISTRESS   JOY 

that,  in  spite  of  its  richness,  it  reminded  her  strangely 
of  the  old  simple  days  at  home.  The  green  was  just  the 
tint  which  the  young  leaves  showed  when  first  they 
unrolled  themselves  in  springtime.  The  white  flowers 
were  like  many  she  had  been  wont  to  gather  in  the  near 
grove  as  a  child.  The  sight  of  the  pretty  toilet  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  her  visit 
began,  a  sort  of  faint,  homesick  longing  to  her  heart. 

On  the  day  before  the  ball  an  army  of  negroes  from 
the  near-by  plantation  took  possession  of  the  house. 
'Sieur  Valentine  had  fled  on  an  ostensible  business  trip. 
Luis  was  at  the  barracks.  Neville,  who  was  a  member 
of  a  junior  military  organization,  was  away  on  duty. 
The  brood  of  little  ones  was  strictly  pent  within  the 
nursery.  Ausite  and  Madeleine  were  wrestling  with 
the  final  alterations  of  the  modiste.  Joy,  in  her  own 
room,  practised  her  endless  dancing-steps.  Madame 
Valentine  had  her  own  large  chair  carried  from  place  to 
place  by  an  attendant;  in  it  she  sat  and  directed  the 
work.  All  heavy  hangings  in  the  great  parlors  were 
taken  down.  Garlands  of  palm  leaves,  wild  vines,  and 
gray  moss  took  their  places.  On  the  night  of  the  ball, 
myriads  of  fresh  flowers  would  be  added  to  these.  The 
floors  were  rubbed,  waxed,  and  rubbed  again  to  perfect 
dancing  condition.  The  brasses  were  polished,  and 
fresh  candles  set  in  all  the  sconces. 

Madame  sat  like  an  enchantress.  She  was  perfectly 
inert,  except  for  hands  and  voice.  When  one  of  those 
plump,  white,  be  jeweled  members  was  waved  it  set  in 
motion  at  once  a  train  of  black  servitors,  who  hastened 
to  do  her  bidding.  Celeste  and  Tante  Sophie,  who 
appeared  to  be  her  familiars,  were  sent  flying  in  all 
directions  upon  all  sorts  of  errands. 

When  the  ball-rooms  above-stairs  were  well  under 
way,  madame's  chair  was  carried  out  through  the  gal 
lery  across  the  grassy  back  court  to  the  kitchens.  In 


MISTRESS  JOY  249 

these  precincts  she  remained,  directing  and  planning, 
for  the  greater  part  of  two  days.  A  ball  supper,  at  that 
time  and  place,  was  no  flimsy  affair,  but  a  heavy,  sub 
stantial  meal.  The  key-note  of  all  the  preparations  was 
over-lavish  abundance. 

Madame  could  not  be  content  till  the  rooms  set  apart 
for  the  duke  and  that  portion  of  his  suite  which  would 
remain  with  him  were  finally  redecorated  and  refur 
nished.  She  wanted  them  in  blue  and  silver,  with  the 
lilies  of  France  appearing  everywhere  in  the  decora 
tions.  'Sieur  Valentine  groaned  over  the  bills  for  this 
particular  folly;  but  since  Madame  Valentine  was 
spending  her  own  money,  he  preserved  a  discreet 
silence. 

More  than  a  thousand  invitations  had  been  issued, 
and  preparations  were  made  to  entertain  almost  so 
many,  as,  though  a  number  of  the  guests  were  bidden 
from  outlying  parishes,  the  interest  in  Louis  Philippe's 
visit  being  great,  it  was  believed  nearly  all  invited 
would  attend.  Since  the  great  drawing-rooms  were 
used  for  ball-rooms,  there  remained  no  apartment  of 
sufficient  size  to  serve  as  banquet-hall  for  such  an  occa 
sion.  To  answer  this  purpose  the  broad  gallery  sur 
rounding  the  courtyard  at  the  back  of  the  house  was 
walled  with  heavy  white  cloth,  such  as  Joy  had  seen 
woven  down  in  the  loom-room.  This  creamy  surface 
made  an  excellent  background  for  garlands  of  flowers 
and  evergreens,  streamers  and  flags. 

Twenty  of  the  negroes  were  busy  all  day,  under 
Tante  Sophie's  direction,  finishing  this  part  of  the  deco 
rative  scheme.  Celeste,  drilling  the  maids  for  the 
ladies'  cloak-rooms,  marshaled  and  trained  her  force 
with  the  precision  of  a  sergeant  instructing  a  military 
squad.  She  was  severe  in  the  matter  of  turbans,  and 
even  acrimonious  upon  the  subject  of  aprons. 

When  the  evening  arrived,  Joy's  heart  mounted  with 


250  MISTRESS  JOY 

a  feverish  exultation  and  delight.  Zette  worked  for 
hours  arranging  the  bright  hair,  pomading,  powder 
ing,  whitening,  and  beautifying  the  small  hands,  and 
seeing  that  every  detail  was  perfect.  When  the  three 
girls  were  dressed,  long  before  the  earliest  guest  was 
expected  to  arrive — nothing  dilatory  was  tolerated  in 
that  well-disciplined  household — they  went  dutifully 
to  present  themselves  to  maman. 

Her  own  daughters  she  kissed  and  commended 
warmly,  but  her  eyes  traveled  past  them  to  rest  with 
even  greater  approval  upon  Joy.  "Now,  my  niece," 
she  said,  "you  look  as  every  girl  should  look  once  in 
her  life — your  very  best.  That  frock  was  an  inspira 
tion.  'T  is  like  a  young  willow-tree  when  the  sun 
strikes  across  it;  but"--  and  she  drew  her  dark  brows 
together — "there  is  something  lacking.  What  is  it? 
Ah,  I  have  it  now." 

She  was  sitting,  three  maids  at  work  over  her  toilet, 
while  she  talked  composedly.  Almost  upsetting  Ce 
leste,  who  was  busily  fitting  on  her  slippers,  she  turned 
and  drew  a  key  from  a  casket  upon  the  dressing-table 
beside  her.  Tossing  it  to  the  kneeling  Celeste,  she  bade 
her,  "There,  take  that,  go  to  the  armoire,  and  bring 
me  my  little  old  jewel-case — not  the  one  in  use,  you 
understand — the  black  one  with  the  silver  clasps,  the 
casket  de  ma  grande  manian." 

This  brought  and  opened  on  her  lap,  she  sought  out 
from  among  the  quaint  old  trinkets  some  ornaments  in 
silver  settings,  a  most  peculiar  combination  of  pearls 
and  diamonds.  The  stones  were  not  large,  but  they 
were  extremely  clear  and  brilliant,  and  the  effect,  while 
unusual,  was  singularly  suited  to  Joy's  costume. 

"Here,  petite,"  she  said  to  Madeleine,  "I  cannot  rise 
to  put  them  on,  so  do  you  place  them;  you  have  good 
taste." 

When  Joy  was  led  before  the  mirror  in  the  great 


MISTRESS  JOY  251 

ball-room,  she  saw  the  reflection  of  a  tall,  slender  figure 
in  pale  shimmering  green,  garlanded  like  a  wood 
nymph  with  blossoms  and  leaves.  The  costume  was 
cool,  chaste,  exquisite ;  only  the  starry  eyes  and  the  rich 
scarlet  of  her  lips  gave  life  and  vivacity  to  her  appear 
ance.  At  sight  of  her  own  loveliness,  an  intoxication 
seized  upon  her.  She  was  in  a  world  where  beauty 
counted  for  everything,  and  she  saw  that  she  was  beau 
tiful.  The  old  Joyce  Valentine  dropped  finally  away 
from  her,  the  chrysalis  was  burst,  and  the  butterfly 
spread  its  dazzling  new  wings  to  flutter  awhile  in  the 
sunshine  of  pleasure  and  adulation. 

Meantime  guests  had  begun  to  arrive,  music  was 
wailing  through  the  rooms — the  wonderful  Spanish 
music  of  harp,  viol,  and  violin,  and  the  lighter  French 
music  of  the  guitar. 

Joyce  was  in  line  with  her  cousins  to  receive  the 
guests.  Maman  had  said,  when  she  told  her  daugh 
ters  that  the  duke  was  to  open  the  ball  with  herself, 
and  might  dance  thereafter  with  whom  he  chose,  "I 
miss  my  count  if  a  prince  of  the  house  of  Bourbon 
overlooks  a  fair  head  like  this." 

Now,  as  Joyce  stood,  taller  than  her  two  pretty 
cousins,  pulsing  through  every  vein  and  tingling  in 
every  nerve  and  fiber  with  the  sheer  delight  and  vain 
glory  of  being  young  and  beautiful  and  admired,  the 
duke's  eyes  did  indeed  rest  upon  her,  and,  "Your  eldest 
daughter  is  blonde,"  he  observed  to  maman.  "You 
Americans  puzzle  me  with  your  piquant  contrasts." 

It  was  explained  to  him  that  the  demoiselle  was  a 
niece,  and  not  a  daughter.  He  continued  to  gaze  at 
her  approvingly.  The  ball  had  been  opened,  the  duke 
dancing  with  Madame  Valentine.  His  highness  had 
asked  a  dance  of  each  of  her  daughters.  He  then  ex 
pressed  a  desire  to  dance  with  the  charming  niece. 

Joy  ~  was  rapt  in  utter  ecstasy.     It  would  not  have 


252  MISTRESS  JOY 

seemed  strange  nor  embarrassing  to  her  if  the  moon 
had  dipped  down  from  heaven  to  salute  her.  When 
the  young  duke  stood  before  her,  debonair  and  grace 
ful,  she  answered  him  as  frankly  and  smilingly  as  she 
would  have  answered  David  in  the  old  cabin  at  home. 
"I  should  be  so  happy  and  proud  to,  monseigneur;  but 
I  can  only  dance  one  dance,  and  perhaps  that  is  not 
the  one  for  which  you  will  ask  me." 

"You  can  only —  '  began  the  duke,  and  broke  off 
inquiringly.  A  demoiselle  who  was  strictly  limited  to 
one  dance  was  something  new  in  his  experience. 

"I  mean  that  I  have  only  learned  how  to  dance  one," 
explained  Joy,  innocently. 

"But,  pardon,  how  was  that?"  inquired  his  grace, 
with  interest.  "Will  Tante  permit?  May  I  sit  beside 
you  and  talk  to  you  ?" 

It  seemed,  when  interrogated  upon  the  subject,  that 
Tante  would  permit.  Orleans,  with  a  graceful  salute 
and  a  murmured  word  of  thanks,  seated  himself  beside 
Joy.  And  there,  before  the  envious  eyes  of  the  most 
brilliant  society  which  the  New  World  could  produce, 
this  young  backwoods  woman,  whose  highest  ambi 
tion  had  once  been  to  become  a  Methodist  preacher, 
monopolized,  entertained,  and  charmed  the  one  scion 
of  royalty  present,  the  future  King  of  France. 

The  duke's  English  was  excellent,  interlarded  with 
French  words  and  phrases  which  Joy  comprehended 
perfectly  and  was  even  beginning  to  use  since  her  stay 
at  her  uncle's  house. 

She  told  him,  in  answer  to  his  questions,  of  'Sieur 
Pas  Seul  and  her  earnest  practisings.  "So  that  I 
might  dance  genteelly  at  this  your  ball,  monseigneur," 
she  said. 

"And  you  can  dance  like  an  angel  now?"  hazarded 
he,  laughing. 

"No,"  returned  Joy,  soberly ;  "but  I  have  learned  it ; 


MISTRESS  JOY  253 

I  can  dance  it  correctly.  You  need  not  fear  to  ask  me ; 
I  shall  not  make  any  mistake  if  you  ask  me  for  the  one 
dance  I  know." 

"And  what  dance  is  that?"  inquired  the  duke,  still 
smiling.  She  was  really  too  delicious,  this  little  pro 
vincial. 

"It  is  the  sword  minuet,"  replied  Joyce.  "The  'sieur 
thought  my  head  would  look  well  going  down  the  line 
of  swords,  because  it  is  fair." 

The  duke's  face  clouded  a  little.  So  many  fair 
heads  had  gone  down  before  the  swords  of  France  in 
his  day  that  the  association  of  ideas  was  not  a  pleas 
ant  one. 

"Mademoiselle,  then,  is  promised  to  me  for  the  sword 
minuet,"  he  agreed.  "And  now  will  you  tell  me,  since 
you  say  you  live  at  Natchez,  why  I  did  not  see  you  at 
the  ball  there?  Were  you  already  here  visiting  the 
good  Uncle  Valentine?" 

At  the  inquiry,  the  ball-room  and  its  lights,  the 
duke's  elegant  young  figure,  swam  for  an  instant  quite 
away  from  Joy's  consciousness.  She  was  the  won 
dering  girl  standing  upon  the  hearth-stone  at  home, 
adoring  and  envying  Jessop's  magnificence.  After  all, 
she  had  seen  nothing  so  beautiful  since.  The  duke, 
in  blue  and  silver,  with  his  orders  and  medals — those 
orders  which  Jessop  had  mentioned  and  which  she  had 
then  misunderstood — was  more  the  finicky  fine  gentle 
man  and  less  the  fairy  prince  than  he  who  knelt  and 
claimed  her  for  his  princess  on  that  never-to-be-for 
gotten  evening. 

"I  was  at  Natchez,  monseigneur,  and  I  dressed  the 
hair  of  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  attended  your  ball," 
said  Joy,  with  one  of  her  sudden  and  characteristic 
flashes  of  mischievous  fun. 

"Is  mademoiselle,  then,  a  dresser  of  gentlemen's 
hair?"  returned  Orleans,  demurely.  "May  one  hope 


254  MISTRESS  JOY 

to  profit  by  her  talents?  Mine  own  hair-dresser  (now  I 
hear  of  this)  is  quite  unsatisfactory.  But  why,  having 
dressed  the  gentleman's  head,  did  you  not  dress  your 
own  and  attend  the  ball  ?" 

The  extent  of  all  she  would  have  to  explain  to  this 
man,  to  whom  her  former  life  was  quite  an  unknown 
tongue,  showed  Joy  more  clearly  than  anything  yet 
had  done  how  far  she  had  traveled  from  that  old  self 
of  hers.  She  began  by  telling  him  that  she  was  a 
Methodist,  that  her  creed  did  not  permit  dancing  or 
indulgence  in  any  of  the  pleasures  of  the  gay  world. 
She  added  that  her  father  had  now  sent  her  to  test  her 
self  in  this  same  world  before  going  back  to  take  up 
her  old  life  and  to  assume,  perhaps,  her  calling  as  a 
preacher  of  the  Word. 

"So  mademoiselle  is  devote,"  returned  Orleans, 
comprehendingly,  "and  she  goes  back  to  the — the — 
convent,  is  it  not? — after  this  visit." 

Joy  smilingly  explained  once  more;  but,  after  all,  a 
convent,  she  thought,  meant  to  him  what  her  life  stood 
for  to  her. 

"And  mademoiselle  has  learned  to  dance — for  me? 
She  will  dance  this  once  with  me  before  she  goes  back 
to  renounce  the  world?  Quel  honncur  for  a  poor 
exile!" 

"Yes,  monseigneur,  I  shall  dance  with  you,  and  I 
shall  never  dance  again."  The  words  came  almost 
without  volition.  Joy  had  made  no  such  resolution, 
and  yet  once  the  thing  was  said  she  knew  that  it  was 
true.  The  statement  itself,  the  tone  in  which  she 
spoke,  and  a  something  tender  and  exalted  that  came 
into  her  face  as  the  words  were  uttered,  touched  the 
young  duke  strangely.  He  believed,  not  unnaturally, 
that  it  was  devotion  to  the  cause  he  represented  which 
prompted  all. 

"Ah,  but  mademoiselle  should  dance  many  times. 


MISTRESS  JOY  255 

Such  beauty  as  hers  should  never  be  in  eclipse,"  he 
protested. 

"I  beg  you  to  believe,"  said  Joyce,  returning  to  her 
laughing  manner,  "that  I  can  do  many  things  better 
than  I  can  dance." 

"For  instance — ?"  interrogated  the  duke. 

"Bake,  brew,  spin,  weave,  handle  an  ax  or  a  rifle — 
and  dress  gentlemen's  heads  withal,"  she  returned 
archly. 

"Faith,  't  is  an  accomplished  demoiselle,"  jested 
Orleans.  He  took  her  enumerations  for  simple  pleasan 
try.  "And  where,  may  I  ask,"  he  continued,  "did  these 
little  hands  learn  to  wield  an  ax  or  handle  a  rifle?" 

Joyce  gave  some  brief  description  of  her  life  at 
Natchez  which  would  account  for  the  wood-chopping. 
It  was  all  so  strange  and  new  to  this  man,  and  to  other 
guests  who  began  to  cluster  around  and  listen  as  she 
spoke,  that  when  Orleans  asked,  "And  what  of  the 
rifle?"  there  was  a  general  murmur  of  inquiry  from 
those  near. 

Joy's  spirits  had  mounted,  as  those  of  a  young  girl 
at  her  first  ball  must  mount,  yet  her  exaltation  had  a 
deeper  spiritual  significance.  These  people  were  not 
her  people,  this  world  was  not  her  world,  and  she 
moved  among  them,  and  in  it,  intoxicated  by  her  own 
emotions  indeed,  but  composed  as  a  child  among  pup 
pets.  They  were  to  her  no  more  than  a  bright  show. 
Their  homage,  their  adulation,  added  its  little  share  to 
the  free,  wild  rapture  which  coursed  through  her.  Had 
they  turned  their  backs,  had  they  sneered,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  it  could  not  have  reached  Joyce  Valentine. 
With  no  more  embarrassment  than  if  she  had  been 
speaking  to  the  playmates  of  her  childhood  in  the  little 
meeting-house  at  home,  she  began  to  tell  the  story  of 
how  and  why  a  woman  learns  to  use  a  rifle  in  the 
backwoods. 


256  MISTRESS  JOY 

Maman  was  divided  between  pride  in  her  niece's 
conquest  and  a  tremulous  uneasiness  as  to  the  pro 
priety  of  a  demoiselle  attracting  so  much  attention. 
Drawn  into  the  circle,  she  listened  with  the  others. 
Joyce  held  her  audience  with  the  unerring  instinct  of 
the  natural  raconteur.  They  saw  with  her  eyes. 
Again,  in  that  brilliant  ball-room,  the  great,  sullen 
Mississippi  crept  beside  the  bank  where  the  little  cabin 
stood ;  the  cane-brake  whispered  around  it,  the  painted 
savages  lurked  without,  the  wild-cat's  moaning  call 
came  from  the  thicket,  the  settlers  barricaded  and  de 
fended  their  homes. 

When  she  ended  there  was  a  long-drawn  sigh  among 
her  listeners,  better  applause  than  the  hand-clapping 
and  vivacious  exclamations  which  followed  it.  Fail 
ure,  Joy  felt,  could  not  touch  her;  but  this  unexpected 
and  overwhelming  success  did  slightly  abash.  To  Ma 
dame  Valentine's  great  relief,  Orleans  himself  ended 
a  situation  which  she,  as  hostess,  felt  was  growing  im 
possible.  Rising,  he  bowed  profoundly. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "you  are  indeed  an  en 
chantress.  You  transport  your  hearers  whither  you 
will,  so  that  they  forget  time  and  place.  But,  I  pray 
you,  forget  not  that  the  next  dance  but  one  is  that 
which  you  have  called  my  dance,  and  which  I  shall 
herafter  forever  call — ours." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

HE  ball  given  by  that  loyal  French 
woman,  born  Le  Blanc,  then  Madame 
Henri  Valentine,  to  the  exiled  nephew 
of  him  whom  she  still  proudly  called 
"our  martyred  king,"  went  down  in 
tradition  as  the  "royal  ball." 

The  festivities  were  at  their  height. 
Couples  were  ranged  at  the  head  of  the  long  ball-room 
for  the  sword  minuet,  Louis  Philippe  and  Mistress 
Joyce  Valentine  dancing  together. 

Captain  Luis  Valentine  had  invited  a  fellow-soldier 
and  United  States  officer  to  the  ball.  This  officer, 
Colonel  Burr,  represented  that  there  were  then  in  New 
Orleans  two  friends  of  Master  Tobias  and  Mistress 
Joyce  Valentine  who  should  also  be  bidden  to  attend. 
These  friends  were  Major  Mountfalcon  a'Jessop  and 
Master  David  Batchelor,  the  latter  there  on  business 
connected  with  the  levees  at  Natchez. 

These  four  men,  walking  together,  entered  the  ball 
room  just  as  Mistress  Joy,  leading  her  train  of  beau 
ties,  came  stepping  down  under  the  arching  steel.  She 
was  taller  than  those  who  followed  her.  Her  red-gold 
head  was  lifted  high.  Added  to  the  light,  balancing 
step  of  the  minuet,  there  was  something  free  and  wild 
and  unconquerable  in  her  bearing.  Her  eyes  glowed 
exultantly,  her  red  lips  were  parted,  the  light  of  a 
thousand  lusters  seemed  to  center  in  her  bright  hair. 
It  was  the  supreme  moment.  The  tide  was  at  its 
17  257 


258  MISTRESS  JOY 

height,  and  as  she  touched  high-water  mark  something 
back  of  her  triumphant  rapture  told  her  that  after  this 
there  could  come  nothing  but  ebb. 

"Behold  our  little  Methodist  preacher,  queen  of  the 
revels !  Who  would  have  believed  it  ?  And  yet 't  was 
always  in  her,"  cried  Burr,  gaily. 

"My  cousin  looks  a  goddess,  rather  than  a  queen," 
corrected  Luis  Valentine,  a  trifle  stiffly.  His  dark  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  Joy  with  passionate  adoration — an 
open  adoration  Jessop  at  once  noted  and  resented. 

"Neither  role,  methinks,  suits  Mistress  Valentine. 
She  was  born  to  be  a  saint,  rather  than  queen  or  god 
dess.  I  have  seen  her  look  better."  He  spoke  in  a 
surly  tone,  which  provoked  from  Burr  a  half-smoth 
ered  burst  of  laughter. 

David's  equable  face  was  turned  upon  the  young 
beauty  with  simple  delight  in  her  loveliness.  Whether 
he  felt  or  thought  further  than  that,  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  say.  His  tall,  fine  form  just  within 
the  open  door,  his  bright,  keen,  kindly  eyes  glancing 
interestedly  about  the  unfamiliar  scene,  David  Batche- 
lor,  in  his  handsome  and  becoming  attire,  was,  even  in 
that  brilliant  assemblage,  a  noble  and  striking  figure. 

His  towering  fair  head  topped  that  of  the  tallest  man 
in  the  room.  His  clear  gaze  held  neither  the  wonder 
of  a  child  looking  at  things  beyond  his  round  of  know 
ledge,  nor  the  patronage  of  an  elder,  directed  toward 
the  amusements  of  those  beneath  him  in  understand 
ing.  It  was  the  level  look  of  kind  equality  which  gave 
to  those  about  him  the  privilege  of  enjoying  with  his 
endorsement  that  for  which  he  himself  did  not  care. 

As  they  spoke,  the  music  rose  upon  a  brave  cres 
cendo,  the  lines  of  dancers  once  more  parted,  the  swords 
which  had  been  sheathed  were  drawn  from  their  scab 
bards  and  leaped  aloft  like  quivering  flames.  Beneath 
their  overarching  brightness,  Louis  Philippe  bent  low 


M1STKKSS    ](>Y    l.KADINC.    H  K  K    TRAIN    ol-     BKAfTIKS. 


MISTRESS  JOY  259 

to  salute  his  partner.  "The  whimsy  of  fate!"  com 
mented  Burr.  "To  see  that  little  Methody  dancing 
with  a  possible  sovereign — yea,  and  carrying  all  off 
with  a  high  hand!" 

Jessop's  dissatisfied  glance  roamed  over  the  gor 
geous  rooms  and  the  splendid  company.  He  was 
angry  that  there  seemed  nothing  at  which  to  take  ex 
ception.  It  galled  his  pride  to  think  that  Joy,  through 
no  agency  of  his,  was  enjoying — yes,  and  adorning — • 
such  a  scene.  There  was  in  his  heart,  too,  a  lingering 
jealousy  of  this  new  Joyce  for  the  sake  of  the  old. 
Her  appeal  to  him  had  been  in  the  days  past  stronger 
than  it  now  was.  He  was  beginning  to  see  that  if  he 
should  promote  her  to  this  life,  her  charm  for  him 
would  be  impaired,  if  not  destroyed. 

As  the  dance  ceased,  Joy  caught  sight  of  the  four 
men  standing  together,  and  gave  them  such  greeting 
as  a  young  sovereign  might  have  done — just  a  mere 
lowering  of  the  lids  and  a  faint  bend  of  the  regal  young 
head.  The  ebbing  of  her  tide  of  rapture  had  not  yet 
set  in.  Orleans  having  returned  his  partner  to  her 
aunt's  side,  Captain  Valentine  pressed  forward  to  en 
treat  Joy  for  a  dance,  and  to  reproach  her  for  never 
having  looked  his  way  the  entire  evening. 

"Nay,  Cousin  Luis,  I  have  danced  for  the  last  time ; 
this  I  have  promised  his  highness,"  was  her  answer, 
very  lightly  and  idly  given. 

Luis  was  furious.  Had  she  been  the  most  finished 
coquette,  she  could  scarcely  have  selected  a  reply  more 
calculated  to  fan  the  flame  of  his  fancy.  Her  promise 
to  the  duke  had  been  in  reality  a  compact  with  her  own 
soul,  but  this  he  could  not  know.  She  now  asked 
Tante's  permission  to  have  Luis  take  her  across,  that 
she  might  speak  to  these  gentlemen,  who  were  friends 
of  her  father's.  Luis,  glad  to  be  of  service  and  sorry 
to  assist  her  to  what  he  supposed  would  be  fresh  con- 


260  MISTRESS  JOY 

quests,  escorted  her  with  mingled  gallantry  and  re 
luctance. 

Burr,  as  the  eldest  man  of  the  group,  was  greeted 
first — Joy  was  learning  social  usage  famously. 

Then  she  turned  to  Jessop — Jessop,  resplendent  in 
his  white  satin  and  powder  and  lace,  with  the  diamonds 
returned  to  their  places  on  shoe-buckle,  hand,  and  frill 
— the  fairy  prince  well  met  in  fairyland.  There  was  no 
thrill  of  expectation  at  thought  or  sight  of  him,  no 
quickening  of  the  pulses. 

There  he  stood,  handsomer  than  the  duke,  he  who 
had  given  her  her  first  lessons  in  love,  and  yet — and 
yet — was  he  anything  to  her  now  ? 

She  turned  eagerly  to  David.  "When  saw  you  my 
father,  Master  Batchelor?  Was  he  well,  and  did  he 
send  any  message  by  you?" 

She  felt  an  absurd  impulse  to  ask  Jessop,  Colonel 
Burr,  and  her  cousin  to  go  away,  while  she  should  talk 
to  Batchelor  of  the  chickens  and  the  cats,  of  Reasie  and 
Sister  Longanecker  and  the  meetings  of  the  Society 
and  the  old  homely  details  which  used  to  make  up  life 
for  her. 

David  must  have  read  something  of  this  in  her  face, 
for  he  answered  very  kindly,  though  with  a  half  smile. 
"Mistress  Valentine,  I  have,  from  various  sources, 
many  messages  for  you,  the  which  I  will  deliver  here 
after.  Perchance  I  may  have  speech  with  you  to-mor 
row.  I  go  home  on  the  day  following,  and  you  may 
desire  to  return  these  greetings." 

Colonel  Burr,  who  had  engaged  Luis  in  conversa 
tion,  covertly  watched  the  three  others.  He  seemed  to 
find  something  amusing  in  the  situation  of  affairs,  and 
said  finally  to  David :  "My  friend  Captain  Valentine 
hath  promised,  if  Major  Jessop  will  take  the  belle  of 
the  ball  to  her  chaperone,  to  present  us  to  what  would 
be,  were  Mistress  Valentine  not  present,  the  prettiest 
demoiselle  in  the  room." 


MISTRESS  JOY  261 

Left  together,  a  curious  silence  fell  between  the  two. 
"Will  you  come  out  on  the  balcony  and  talk  to  me, 
Joy?"  asked  Jessop,  at  last,  in  a  low  tone. 

"That  I  may  not  do  without  Tante's  permission," 
returned  Joy;  "and  I  much  doubt  if  she  will  approve 
of  such  a  thing." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  both  smiled  a  little 
ruefully.  The  thread  of  their  love  seemed  difficult  to 
pick  up  again.  Where  the  stitch  had  been  dropped, 
and  how,  neither  could  say.  There  was  no  sponta 
neity,  no  warmth  of  feeling.  There  was  even  no  vi 
vacity  of  disappointment  in  Joyce;  she  felt  only  a 
pained  surprise.  He  had  embodied  for  her  once  all  the 
charm  of  such  a  scene  as  this.  He  had  been  her  first 
glimpse  into  a  world  where  beauty  counted. 

Back  in  the  old  life,  when  she  had  dressed  his  hair 
and  wondered  at  his  magnificence,  nothing  could  have 
seemed  to  Joyce  nearer  paradise  than  to  be  at  a  ball 
with  her  fairy  prince.  Now  she  was  transformed  into 
a  fairy  princess,  the  prince  beside  her,  fairyland  about 
her,  and  in  her  bosom  a  heart  of  lead. 

But  when  a  woman's  heart  begins  to  drag,  she  al 
ways  turns  to  jesting.  "If  you  are  bold  enough  to 
face  a  chaperone,  Master  Jessop,"  she  said,  "I  will  ac 
company  you  and  attend  to  the  reserve  guns,  as  I  have 
done  before.  We  can  but  ask  my  aunt  and  be  refused." 

Wondering  much,  for  a  woman  is  never  so  com 
pletely  a  puzzle  to  a  man  as  when  she  is  herself  doubt 
ful  of  her  own  feelings,  Jessop  conducted  Joy  to  her 
aunt. 

So  marked  a  figure  as  his  had  not  failed  to  attract 
the  attention  of  that  watchful  lady.  Turning  to  Col 
onel  Burr,  who  now  stood  beside  her  in  conversation 
with  Madeleine,  she  asked,  "Did  not  the  cavalier  in 
white  come  in  with  you,  monsieur  ?  Who  is  he  ?  What 
of  him?" 

"  'T  is  a  Major  Jessop,"  returned  Burr,  "late  of  the 


262  MISTRESS  JOY 

English  army,  cadet  of  a  noble  house,  rather  a  wild 
fellow,  I  fear,  but  not  worse  than  another." 

Jessop  being  presented,  and  the  permission  asked, 
madame  shook  her  head.  "You  may  take  Major  Jes 
sop  to  the  supper-room  or  to  the  picture  salon,  but  as 
to  balconies — fie,  Major  Jessop! — I  'm  ashamed  of  you, 
Joyous.  The  dew  is  falling;  't  is  no  time  for  balconies 
and  such." 

Like  culprits,  the  two  turned  and  retraced  their  steps. 
"Shall  we  go  to  look  at  the  pictures?"  inquired  Joy, 
rather  wearily. 

"I  care  not  for  pictures  while  I  have  you  before 
me,"  whispered  Jessop.  "Which  is  the  quieter  place? 
Where  can  we  talk?" 

"Who  talks  at  a  ball?  If  any  talk,  surely  there  's 
none  to  listen,"  she  demurred,  with  a  shrug. 

"Does  that  mean  that  you  would  not  listen  to  me, 
or  I  to  you?"  inquired  Jessop,  irritably.  ' 

"Nay,  I  know  not,"  returned  Joy,  with  a  repetition 
of  the  little  shrug.  "You  might  try  it  and  see." 

Their  unpremeditated  footsteps  had  brought  them  to 
one  of  the  entrances  of  the  long  banqueting-hall.  They 
stood  together  and  looked  down  its  length.  It  was 
very  late,  and  the  company  at  the  tables  much  thinned. 
The  flowers  were  beginning  to  wear  an  air  of  haggard 
dejection,  a  sadness  which  Joy  found  echoed  in  her 
heart.  The  centerpieces  of  the  long  tables  were,  in  the 
fashion  of  the  times,  enormously  tall. 

Jessop,  with  that  quick  eye  for  an  opportunity  which 
belonged  to  the  gallants  of  his  world,  saw  the  possibili 
ties  of  one  of  those  great  masses  of  ferns  and  flowers 
for  screening.  Beckoning  to  a  servant,  he  suggested 
that  the  demoiselle  and  he  would  sit  where  an  opening 
toward  the  court  gave  coolness.  A  skilfully  used  coin 
in  the  man's  palm,  a  hint  as  to  the  moving  of  some 
monster  flower-pots,  and  before  she  realized  it,  Joy 


MISTRESS  JOY  263 

found  herself  shut  in  a  little  bower  of  greenery,  the 
great  epergne  flanking  one  side  and  cutting  them  quite 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  table. 

Jessop  seated  himself  close  beside  her.  With  the 
difficulty  of  approach,  his  ardor  had  momentarily  ral 
lied.  "Sweetheart,  how  beautiful  you  are!"  he  mur 
mured  feverishly.  'T  is  the  torture  of  Tantalus  to 
see  those  lips  so  near  me,  so  enticing,  all  my  own,  and 
not  be  able  to  touch  them." 

That  words  like  those  left  Joy  cold  was  no  matter 
for  surprise.  However  light  and  jesting  his  manner, 
in  the  old  days  he  had  certainly  never  addressed  her 
thus.  "Will — will  you  not  have  some  supper?"  she 
asked,  inwardly  recoiling.  "Tante  will  be  distressed 
if  I  am  not  a  good  hostess." 

"How  can  you  talk  to  me  of  such  things?  Let  us, 
for  these  few  moments,  speak  only  of  each  other  and 
our  love."  Upon  the  chair  behind  her  shoulders  she 
felt  the  light  touch  of  his  arm. 

The  possibility  of  anything  like  a  caress  in  so  public 
a  place  shocked  and  frightened  her.  Celeste  was  pass 
ing  up  the  steps  from  the  court  below ;  Joy  put  out  her 
hand  and  caught  the  flying  edges  of  an  apron.  "Ce 
leste,"  she  appealed,  "wait  here  behind  my  chair.  I 
have  a  message  I  desire  to  send  presently  to  Tante." 

Celeste  parted  her  lips  to  say  that  she  was  on  an 
errand  and  would  send  some  one  else,  but  those  large, 
clear  eyes  of  hers,  which  saw  and  comprehended  so 
many  things  they  were  not  supposed  to  see,  perceived 
the  situation.  Without  a  word,  she  dropped  her  brown 
hands  on  the  back  of  Joy's  chair,  and  stood  immovable. 
Her  fingers  wrere  almost  against  the  white  satin  sleeve, 
which  stirred  slightly  and  was  then  withdrawn. 

Leaning  forward  where  he  sat,  Jessop  could  look 
into  the  entrance-hall.  He  observed  that  Colonel  Burr 
was  taking  his  departure.  After  trifling  for  a  few  mo- 


264  MISTRESS  JOY 

ments  with  the  dishes  and  wines  which  had  been  set 
before  him,  so  that  time  enough  might  elapse  to  make 
the  errand  one  impossible  of  accomplishment,  he  re 
marked,  as  though  the  idea  had  just  occurred  to  him : 
"I  would  that  Colonel  Burr  were  here.  He  hath  some 
later  news  of  Natchez  which  would,  methinks,  interest 
you.  He  may  be  leaving  anon.  May  I  send  the  maid 
to  seek  him?" 

Against  her  fingers  Celeste  felt  the  pressure  of  a 
coin,  though  Jessop  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  on  Joy's  painfully  blushing  face. 

"Can  we  not  go  to  him — you  and  I?"  she  asked,  in 
a  hesitating  undertone. 

"Why,  look  you,"  said  Jessop ;  "a  moment  gone  you 
were  anxious  to  feed  me.  And  now,  when  I  have  but 
begun  my  supper,  you  would  hurry  me  away.  Me 
thinks  Madame  Valentine  might  well  chide,  if  't  is 
thus  you  starve  her  guests,"  and  he  laughed  lightly. 

The  brown  fingers  did  not  close,  but  let  the  coin  fall 
ringing  to  the  floor. 

Jessop  turned  one  furious  glance  upon  the  negress, 
then  addressed  himself  once  more  to  Joy.  As  a  last 
shift,  he  called  upon  the  secret  which  had  lain  un 
touched,  a  sweet  bond  between  them,  since  the  night 
when  her  sympathy,  stirred  by  his  weakness,  had  over 
flowed  to  him  in  that  kiss  which  he  had  always  held  to 
be  believed  a  revelation  of  love. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  bending  close  to  her,  ignoring 
Celeste's  presence,  "do  you  remember — dare  you  re 
member — the  time  when  you  loved  me  well  enough  to 
lay  those  sweet  lips  of  yours  on  mine — yea,  without 
my  asking — and  give  me  the  kiss — give  it  me — that 
kiss  for  which  I  am  now  starving?  Be  merciful, 
sweetheart!  Be  once  more  kind — as  kind  as  you  are 
fair." 

Joyce  drew  back,  filled  with  repugnance.     From  his 


MISTRESS   JOY  265 

first  appearance  here,  Jessop's  attitude  had  been  to  her 
intolerable.  Coarse,  encroaching-,  selfish  she  felt  it  to 
be.  She  had  the  kindness,  the  nobility  of  nature,  to 
believe  that  this  was  but  a  mood — that  it  would  pass, 
leaving  him  once  more  the  man  she  had  known  at 
Natchez.  But  now  her  only  wish  was  to  get  away 
from  everybody,  to  be  alone  with  this  new  problem 
which  confronted  her. 

As  she  rose  unsteadily  to  her  feet,  hasty  steps  came 
down  the  hall.  The  screen  of  palms  was  pushed  aside, 
and  Luis  Valentine's  dark  face  looked  in.  "Ah,  here 
you  are!"  he  exclaimed,  glancing  sharply  from  one  to 
the  other,  his  eyes  resting  finally  with  approval  upon 
the  immovable  Celeste.  "I  have  been  seeking  you 
everywhere;  maman  is  asking  for  you.  Maman's  de 
moiselles  are  strictly  limited  in  the  time  they  give  each 
cavalier,  Major  Jessop,  and  your  quart  d'hcure,  accord 
ing  to  the  maternal  clock,  is  up,  I  believe.  Cousin 
Joyous,  will  you  permit  me,  or  will  the  major  take 
you  back?" 

Joy  put  her  hand  upon  her  cousin's  arm  with  a  feel 
ing  of  intense  relief.  "I  '11  go  with  you,  Cousin  Luis, 
please — if  I  may  be  excused  ?"  She  bowed  slightly  to 
Jessop. 

"Have  you  been  presented  to  maman?"  asked  the 
captain,  recollecting,  in  his  satisfaction,  to  be  mannerly. 
"She  was  dancing  when  we  camejn,  I  remember.  May 
I  present  you  now  ?" 

Jessop  explained  that  he  had  met  madame,  but  prom 
ised  to  attend  later  upon  his  hostess. 

"Who  built  your  bower,  sweet  cousin?"  Luis  in 
quired,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  earshot.  "  'T  was 
a  fine  one  for  playing  Corydon  and  Phyllis,  methinks." 

Joy  plucked  up  spirit  to  say  that  she  believed  a  num 
ber  of  the  negroes  did  the  decorating ;  she  could  scarce 
say  which  one  placed  the  palms. 


266  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Fie,  Cousin  Joyous,  you  know  well  my  meaning! 
You  had  no  need  of  rouge,  I  warrant  me,  when  I  poked 
my  rash,  intruding  nose  into  your  paradise." 

As  Joy  gained  her  aunt's  side,  that  matron  said  to 
Luis  anxiously:  "Where  is  the  man?  Hath  he  gone 
without  returning  her  to  me?  That  looks  as  though 
't  were  all  true."  To  Joyce  she  added,  in  an  under 
tone:  "The  gentleman  with  whom  you  were,  petite, 
is,  we  find,  a  married  man.  'T  is  an  unsavory  mar 
riage — one  he  scarce  acknowledges ;  and  so,  like  a  good 
old  hen,  I  desired  to  cluck  to  my  chick  and  have  her 
beneath  my  own  wing.  Ah,  you  young  demoiselles 
have  to  learn  that  there  are  many  hawks  about." 

The  solid  earth  seemed  to  slip  from  under  Joy's  feet 
— those  happy  feet  which  had  danced  so  lightly  but  an 
hour  agone.  That  terror  which  is  felt  to  the  full  only 
by  a  creature  who  is  young  and  who,  unfortunate,  has 
been  born  a  woman,  laid  its  clammy  clutch  upon  her 
heart.  Fearing  to  fall  should  she  attempt  to  stand,  she 
sat  perfectly  silent,  with  down-bent  head,  till  she  had 
a  little  recovered  herself. 

Luis,  behind  her  shoulder,  was  whispering  to  her : 
"Ah,  Joyous,  tell  me  something  hard,  something  diffi 
cult  and  dreadful  which  I  may  do  to  prove  my  love  for 
you.  You  laugh  at  me  and  call  me  a  trifler;  put  me 
to  the  test." 

At  first  the  words  went  past  Joy's  consciousness  as 
though  they  were  not  said.  By  and  by  came  the 
thought  of  David.  It  seemed  to  her  that,  in  the  vast 
shifting  sea  of  misery  in  which  she  felt  herself  sub 
merged,  he  would  be  something  steadfast  to  lay  hold 
upon.  "Cousin  Luis,"  she  asked  finally,  "would  you 
find  the  gentleman  who  came  in  with  you  and  Colonel 
Burr  but  now — Master  David  Batchelor?  I  have 
somewhat  to  say  to  him.  I  would  send  a  message  to 
my  father." 


MISTRESS  JOY  267 

Luis's  fine  eyes  clouded.  "You  set  me  a  hard  task," 
he  protested,  "when  you  send  me  for  another  upon 
whom  you  would  smile  instead  of  your  poor  slave.  But 
your  lightest  wish,  my  Joyous,  has  only  to  be  breathed. 
I  go  at  once;  I  fly  to  execute  it." 

Captain  Valentine's  search  was  vain.  To  one  of  the 
quaint,  cage-like  balconies  which  had  been  forbidden 
Joy  and  her  lover,  Jessop  had  brought  David.  To  this 
calm  strength  the  weakling  appealed  instantly  when 
his  own  efforts  failed  to  compass  the  thing  he  desired. 

Jessop's  resplendent  figure,  in  its  court  trappings, 
stood  glorified  outside  the  lighted  window.  A  foun 
tain  splashed  with  soft,  lapsing  rhythm  into  the  stone 
basin  underneath,  and  mirrored  starry  blossoms  float 
ing  like  flower  ghosts  in  the  wan  light.  A  small  breeze, 
heralding  the  hour  before  dawn,  whipped  the  sultry  air 
and  sent  a  shiver  through  the  orange  and  myrtle  boughs 
of  this  old  Creole  garden,  shaking  out  great  cascades 
of  fragrance  to  drown  the  night.  He  stood  there  in 
his  shining  satin,  exhibiting  the  peevish  anger  of  a 
child,  while  the  other  faced  him  patiently.  And  the 
smaller  man's  ire  rose  under  Batchelor's  silent  waiting. 

"  'T  is  for  this  fool's  play  you  made  your  plans, 
Master  Batchelor!"  flung  out  Jessop.  "Methinks  my 
debt  to  you  is  over  large,  and  if  't  is  not  paid  in  quite 
the  coin  you  counted  on,  why  then  that  comes  of  med 
dling  in  the  concerns  of  those  who  could  right  well  dis 
pense  with  such  unwarranted  intrusion." 

The  man  addressed  looked  down  on  the  elegant,  in 
effectual  figure,  and  the  calm  which  Jessop  had  found 
irritating  was  broken  by  a  merely  suggested  smile. 
"How  now,  Master  Jessop — or  shall  I  say,  under  this 
different  sun,  'your  lordship'? — hast  fault  to  find,  and 
a  scapegoat  here  at  hand?" 

Jessop's  anger  blazed  at  the  cool,  half-jesting  words. 
"Fault?  Have  I  fault  to  find?  You  know  right  well 


268  MISTRESS  JOY 

I  have  ground  of  complaint.  You  knew,  when  you 
proposed  this  scheme,  how  't  would  end.  'T  was  finely 
plotted,  Master  Batchelor,  and  e'en  pious,  godly  Pastor 
Valentine  himself  was  ready  to  send  his  Methody  dove 
out  after  a  better  dowered  mate." 

The  clear  eyes  watching  Jessop  hardened,  but  Batch 
elor,  controlling  his  disgust,  replied:  ''Master  Jessop, 
your  world  and  mine  are  far  apart.  You  are  noble 
man — born!"  Jessop  flinched  as  from  a  blow.  "It 
e'en  may  be  the  way  with — noblemen,  to  impugn  their 
benefactors.  For  myself  I  care  naught — I  owe  you 
neither  regard  nor  explanation ;  but  Pastor  Valentine's 
name  you  must  let  be,  or  speak  it  with  that  respect 
owing  him  by  you,  of  all  men.  As  to  your  charges 
against  me — what  are  they,  sir?  What  intrusion  has 
been  in  your  concerns — I  take  it  you  cite  your  own 
concerns,  Master  Jessop  ?" 

"Was  't  not  you  who  brought  Mistress  Joy  to  this 
accursed  hole  to  take  part  in  all  this  junketing?  And 
now,  forsooth,  she  's  got  her  little  Methody  head 
turned." 

"Was  't  intrusion,  sir  ?  Who  came  to  me  for  advise 
ment,  Master  Jessop?  I  gave  it,  mayhap  too  freely." 
His  lips  straightened,  and  he  looked  off  to  the  lighten 
ing  east.  "But  't  was  you  would  have  it.  You  de 
sired  to  take  this  unworldly  maid  from  her  primitive 
life  and  plunge  her  into  such  a  maelstrom  as  that" — 
pointing  back  where  the  music  still  wailed,  the  dancers 
still  whirled  and  curtsied.  "You  would  have  plunged 
her  there  when  't  was  too  late  to  put  her  to  the  test." 

"Test!"  broke  in  Jessop,  irritably.  "That  solemn 
cant,  again !  And  there  comes  in  the  Methody  proba 
tion.  Faith,  life  brings  its  tests  soon  enough,  with 
out  pushing  out  to  meet  them." 

A  ring  of  genuine  feeling  in  the  sharp  tones  softened 
David's  heart  somewhat;  but,  despite  himself,  a  certain 


MISTRESS  JOY  269 

scorn  rang  in  his  voice  as  he  answered :  "Man,  man — 
wouldst  take  a  woman  blindfold  ?  For  me,  not  though 
my  soul  craved  her  till  it  sickened,  would  I  have  her 
untried.  She  should  come  to  me  of  her  own  wish, 
having  sounded  the  deeps  within  her,  and  knowing  that 
where  I  am  there  only  she  belongs."  His  voice  shook 
with  a  passion  which  Jessop  had  never  guessed,  and  at 
which  he  wondered  with  a  vague  uneasiness. 

Ere  the  other  could  speak,  Batchelor  went  on : 
"What  I  did  was  not  for  you,  though  I  wish  you 
well.  'T  was  for  Pastor  Valentine  and  his  daugh 
ter.  And  now,  since  you  speak  of  intrusion,  how 
is  't  I  find  you  here  in  this  city,  the  mere  mention 
of  which  I  wrell  remember  displeased  you,  Master  Jes 
sop?  'T  was  agreed  that  you  return  to  Natchez  in 
the  coming  summer  for  a  settlement  with  Mistress  Joy. 
What  changed  your  plans?  'T  is  what  well  might  be 
called  in  you  intrusion  to  present  yourself  thus  un 
heralded." 

''And  what,  pray,  of  Master  Batchelor?  He  is  free 
to  go  and  come  as  pleaseth  him.  Only  my  unworthy 
self  is  to  be  thus  held  to  account.  Is  't  not  so?" 

At  his  words  Batchelor's  eyes  darkened,  and  a  flush 
rose  in  his  tanned  face;  but,  without  resentment,  he 
made  answer,  "A  very  proper  query,  Master  Jessop, 
to  come  from  you ;  but  the  conditions  are  unlike,  as  you 
must  yourself  admit.  I  am  here  to  prosecute  the  busi 
ness  you  know  of — that  pertaining  to  the  Mississippi 
levees.  Colonel  Burr  urged  my  presence  at  this  ball, 
to  absent  myself  from  which  would  have  seemed  rude 
ness,  and  I  am  here."  Then,  smiling  more  genially, 
"Now  for  your  altered  plans,  Master  Jessop — what  of 
them?" 

Jessop  made  explanation,  with  an  uneasy  halting 
that  caused  the  other's  eyes  to  narrow  in  earnest  scru 
tiny  as  they  rested  on  his  scowling  face.  "Faith,  't  is 


27o  MISTRESS  JOY 

not  so  monstrous  that  a  man  change  his  mind.  Mis 
tress  Joy  was  but  to  stay  a  matter  of  weeks,  and  here 
't  is  months !  I  thought  her  gone  from  New  Orleans. 
I — I — have  friends  here — there  were  matters.  I — " 
He  stopped,  with  a  mocking  laugh.  "Forsooth,  friend 
David,  love  needs  no  apology.  'T  was  but  natural, 
methinks,  to  follow  the  lady  of  my  choice." 

"Aye,"  agreed  David,  dryly,  "even  when  you  sup 
posed  her  some  hundreds  of  miles  away." 

Jessop's  face  was  black,  but,  remembering  all  this 
man's  patience  and  helpfulness  toward  him  in  former 
straits,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  said  very  winningly : 
"Let  be,  Master  Batchelor;  I  crave  your  pardon.  Mis 
tress  Joy's  mood  to-night  is  not  engaging,  and  I  would 
ask  of  you  once  more — " 

Batchelor  interrupted  decidedly:  "The  pardon  is 
granted  for  your  asking,  Master  Jessop;  there  is  my 
hand  upon  it.  But  for  the  balance,  it  must  rest  with 
you  and  Pastor  Valentine  and  Mistress  Joyce  herself. 
My  very  good  will  is  yours,  but  my  advisement  I  will 
e'en  keep  to  myself." 

To  this  resolution  he  held,  though  Jessop  fumed  and 
swore,  and  went  far  toward  losing  even  the  kindly 
good  will  Batchelor  had  promised.  And,  since  he 
petulantly  refused  to  join  David  when  he  went  to  make 
his  adieus,  Jessop  left  without  seeking  his  hostess  at 
all,  cursing  the  evil  star  which  had  led  him  to  New 
Orleans,  to  this  ball,  and  to  this  interview  with  Batch 
elor. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 


553) 


5JS==5^ 

mr\m 

lifc^^ 


are  you  ill?" 
"I   feel   not 


S  the  leaden  moments  passed,  and  Luis 
did  not  return,  Joy's  sufferings  be 
came  intolerable.  Finally  Tante,  re 
marking-  her  distress,  whispered  soft 
ly:  "What  is  it,  Joyette?  Why, 
where  are  all  the  roses  gone?  You 
are  white  as  my  handkerchief,  child ; 


faltered   Joy.     "I— if 


I   might 


well, 
go—" 

"And  lie  down,"  supplied  Madame  Valentine.  "So 
you  shall,  little  one."  To  the  footman  behind  her 
chair,  she  said  sharply,  below  her  breath,  "Briq,  bring 
Celeste  to  me."  And  when  her  order  had  been  obeyed 
she  gave  the  negress  explicit  directions  as  to  a  cordial 
which  was  to  be  administered,  and  bade  Joy  go  with 
her. 

Even  in  the  preoccupation  of  her  misery,  Joy  noted 
the  perfect  poise  with  which  Madame  Valentine  man 
aged  this  little  by-play,  giving  her  orders  in  a  rapid 
aside,  never  losing  the  amiable  smile  of  the  hostess 
while  receiving  the  devoirs  and  compliments  of  her 
departing  guests. 

Madeleine  and  Ausite  were  yet  dancing,  although 
the  rooms  were  thinning  fast,  the  duke  having  just  re 
tired.  Once  outside  in  the  hallway,  Joy  turned  back 
to  Celeste  and  said :  "Nay,  I  'm  not  ill.  Pray  give  me 
no  cordial.  I  only  want  to  be  in  the  open  air  alone." 

271 


272  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Oui,  mamselle,"  agreed  the  patient,  gentle- voiced 
Celeste,  believing  that  she  understood,  and  full  of 
quick  sympathy.  She  led  Joyce,  silently  and  without 
attracting  unnecessary  attention,  through  a  cross-hall 
out  upon  a  small  iron-railed  balcony,  whence  a  flight  of 
steps  led  directly  into  the  grounds. 

Joy  stood  quite  still  in  the  sweet,  odorous  dusk  of 
the  garden.  Through  the  interlacing  branches  of  a 
mimosa  she  looked  at  the  patient  stars.  Those  same 
stars  were  shining  now  on  the  river  and  the  bluff  and 
Father  Toby's  little  cabin  against  the  cane-brake;  and  at 
the  thought  the  first  sob  of  her  misery  broke  from  her. 

The  desire  to  leave  it  all,  to  walk  out  of  this  house, 
and  on  and  on  in  the  cool,  pitying,  friendly  dark  till 
she  came  to  her  father's  cabin  grew  uncontrollable. 
She  went  hesitatingly  across  the  little  grassy  yard  to 
a  gate. 

"O  mamselle,  mamselle,  your  dress!"  remonstrated 
Celeste's  plaintive  voice  behind  her,  as  the  silken  folds 
trailed  through  drenching  dew. 

"  'T  is  no  matter,"  returned  Joy,  absently;  "I  shall 
never  wear  it  again."  The  negress  caught  up  the 
flowing  skirt,  with  its  great  garlands  of  embroidery, 
and  laid  it  about  the  girl's  bare  shoulders.  Such  ruth 
less  havoc  shocked  her. 

Joy  opened  the  gate  and  stepped  out  upon  the  ban 
quette.  Too  desperately  engrossed  with  her  own  suf 
ferings  to  note  whither  she  was  going,  she  turned  in 
stinctively  to  where  the  dawn  wrought  pallidly  upon 
the  eastern  sky.  It  was  not  yet  daybreak,  but  the  spires 
of  the  cathedral  down  past  the  corner,  where  she  had 
gone  with  her  cousins  to  confession,  were  like  beckon 
ing  fingers  against  the  half  light.  Her  whole  world 
had  at  this  one  touch  jarred,  shaken,  and  fallen  in  ruins 
about  her.  If  Jessop  were  this  thing  he  seemed,  who, 
then,  was  true  ?  Was  all  love  such  a  ghastly  mockery  ? 


MISTRESS  JOY  273 

Might  any  one  whom  you  dared  trust  be  found  in  the 
end  to  be  a  liar — a  cheat? 

Back  of  these  questionings  rioted  the  tumult  of  a 
suffering  which  was  almost  physical — a  revolt  at 
thought  of  her  intimacy,  her  loving  companionship 
with  this  man.  He  had  kissed  her — nay,  she  had 
kissed  him — she,  Joyce  Valentine !  He  had  been  a  part 
of  her  home  life,  hers  and  her  upright,  confiding,  gen 
tle  old  father's,  for  weeks — months.  Recalling  all 
the  daily  familiarities  of  that  life,  she  shuddered,  she 
shrank  as  from  pollution,  and  walked  on  the  faster. 

The  habit  of  Joy's  life  had  been  prayer.  Now  she 
raised  her  face  and  tried  to  pray.  The  stars  were  ob 
scured  by  a  sudden  drift  of  cloud.  Out  from  a  tat 
tered  rift  looked  wanly  a  waning  moon  which  illumined 
nothing.  The  first  big  drops  of  a  shower  pattered  on 
the  pavement.  Joy's  prayer  would  not  come.  It  lin 
gered  somewhere  back  in  her  consciousness,  and  she 
longed  only  for  her  earthly  father's  arms  around  her, 
and  his  broad,  loving  breast  to  lay  her  shamed  head 
upon. 

She  had  been  walking  very  fast,  had  turned  sharply 
into  Chartres  Street,  and  Celeste,  panting  after,  saw 
with  satisfaction  the  wide  portal  and  welcome  light  of 
the  cathedral  just  ahead.  No  doubt  the  poor  demoi 
selle  had  been  imprudent,  and  Madame  Valentine  had 
reproved  her.  Now  she  was  coming  to  make  her  peti 
tion  in  the  church. 

Joy  stood  a  moment,  fascinated,  before  the  open 
door.  Its  silent  invitation  always  touched  her  fancy. 
It  was  to  her  like  a  reaching  hand,  the  outstretched 
arms  of  divine  love.  She  wished  dumbly  that  it  had 
been  her  own  meeting-house  door  so  open  to  her,  and 
then  she  realized  that  troubles  such  as  hers  could  not 
be  carried  to  that  meeting-house.  There  was  no  place 
for  them. 

18 


274  MISTRESS  JOY 

The  negress  laid  a  gentle,  constraining  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  pushed  her  softly  toward  the  portal. 
"Mamselle's  poor  little  pretty  shoes,"  she  whispered 
caressingly. 

Joy  dropped  her  gathered  skirts  from  about  her 
shoulders,  and  stood,  a  gleaming  figure,  in  the  half 
light.  She  put  out  one  white,  scarlet-heeled  slipper, 
sadly  soiled  and  stained  now.  "What  matter  for  the 
shoes,  either?"  she  asked.  "I  shall  never  dance  again, 
nor  care  to  go  to  balls  any  more.  Why  should  I  keep 
them?" 

As  the  edges  of  her  skirts  trailed  upon  the  muddy 
pavement,  Celeste  said,  in  actual  pain :  "It  will  be 
ruined,  mamselle."  But  Joy  did  not  hear.  With  up 
lifted  face  and  unseeing  eyes,  she  let  the  rain,  which 
increased  every  moment,  beat  upon  her  uncovered  head 
and  bare,  white  neck.  The  gracious  coolness  of  it  was 
sweet  to  her  fevered,  thirsting  soul. 

Then,  with  the  bright  drops  gemming  all  her  hair, 
she  turned  and  walked  slowly,  as  in  a  dream,  into  the 
church. 

At  the  altar  a  priest  knelt  in  prayer. 

As  Joy  hesitated  toward  one  of  the  confessionals,  he 
finished  his  devotions  and  rose.  Her  hand  was  on  the 
curtain  when  he  approached  and  accosted  her. 

So  wildly  strange  a  figure  as  she  made  there,  in  her 
ball-gown  with  the  rain  upon  her  hair,  might  well  have 
moved  to  curiosity,  but  he  spoke  as  to  the  most  usual 
of  penitents.  "Do  you  desire  to  confess,  my  daugh 
ter?"  he  asked  quietly.  Then,  as  Joy  bent  her  head 
and  drew  the  curtain  further  back,  "There  is  none 
within  to  hear  you  now." 

"No  one  to  hear  me?"  cried  Joy,  in  anguish.  "There 
is  no  one  to  hear  me,  I  know." 

"I  will  go  in,"  the  gentle  voice  of  the  priest  went  on, 
"if  you  desire  it." 


MISTRESS  JOY  275 

"I  am  not  a  Catholic,"  burst  out  Joy,  abruptly.  "I 
was  brought  up  to  become  a  Methodist  preacher — a 
preacher  of  the  Word.  But  I  am  in  sore  trouble — yea, 
the  blackness  of  darkness  hath  encompassed  me,  and  I 
cannot  see  God's  face  at  all.  I  cannot  find  his  provi 
dence  in  anything  that  hath  happened.  Will  you  lis 
ten  to  me?  Do  you  think  you  might  help  me?" 

"Surely,  my  child,"  replied  the  priest,  "I  will  listen. 
As  for  help,  that  comes  in  time  of  trouble  from  higher 
than  human  sources.  Perchance  I  can  aid  you  to  ask 
for  it  aright,  so  that  it  may  be  given  you." 

Joyce  scarcely  heeded  him.  Too  preoccupied  to 
loose  it,  she  stood  with  the  curtain  of  the  confessional 
still  in  her  hand,  her  eyes  strained  and  unseeing,  her 
smooth,  young  face  white,  affrayed,  convulsed.  In 
sentences  halting,  hurrying,  in  a  voice  none  had  ever 
heard  before — a  voice  unconscious  almost  as  the  voice 
of  madness,  now  sharp  and  agonized,  now  choked  by 
mangling  sobs — she  poured  out  the  whole  of  her  story. 

The  forms  of  living,  the  customary  dignities  of 
adulthood,  fell  away.  Tears  burst  from  her,  and 
streamed  unregarded  down  to  mingle  with  the  rain 
which  soaked  her  shining  broideries. 

There  was  much  that  the  priest  in  no  wise  compre 
hended  ;  but  he  asked  no  questions.  The  tale  of  youth's 
disillusionment,  the  conflict  between  spiritual  and 
worldly  longings  through  which  some  souls  must  of 
necessity  go,  these  were  to  him  old  stories  which  called 
for  no  exactness  in  the  telling,  nor  needed  explanations. 
When  the  passionate,  broken  young  voice  had  made  an 
end  there  was  silence  for  a  time.  Then  the  priest  said 
softly:  "I  will  pray  for  you,  my  daughter;  not  here 
nor  now,  but  later." 

A  month  before,  Joyce  would  have  thought  Papist 
prayers  scarce  desirable,  that  to  accept  them  might  even 
be  sinful.  But  the  thought  of  being  carried  to  the 


276  MISTRESS   JOY 

throne  of  grace,  borne  as  a  child  in  the  arms  of  an 
other,  came  to  her  here  sweet  and  comforting. 

"And  you  would  wish  me  to  advise  you — to  tell  you 
what  it  is  that  you  should  do?"  he  inquired  kindly. 

Joy  had  not  consciously  desired  this;  she  had  only 
longed  overwhelmingly  to  unburden  her  heart,  but  she 
bent  her  head  in  assent. 

"I  think,  my  daughter,  that  your  safest  earthly  ref 
uge  is  with  your  father.  Go  to  him  at  once,  tell  him 
all  that  you  have  told  me;  and  when  you  are  at  peace 
with  him,  methinks  you  will  not  seek  God  in  vain." 

At  mention  of  Father  Toby,  the  remembrance,  which 
had  somehow  seemed  obscured,  that  he  and  the  old 
home  remained  hers  still,  that  it  was  only  the  things 
of  this  new  life  which  had  failed  her,  brought  a  sud 
den  lightening  of  Joy's  spirits. 

Thanking  the  priest,  she  would  have  turned  to  go, 
but  Celeste,  who  had  been  praying  at  the  altar,  whis 
pered  to  her  to  kneel ;  and  as  both  women  bent  before 
him,  the  old  man  spread  his  hands  above  Joy's  heretic 
head  and  blessed  her  in  sonorous  Latin. 

Closely  attended  by  Celeste,  Joy  took  her  way  back 
over  the  wet,  shining  pavements.  The  primrose  lights 
of  dawn  were  clear  behind  the  old  cathedral  toward  the 
east.  The  shower  was  past ;  Joy's  spirit  was  inexpres 
sibly  comforted. 

"Belike,"  she  said  to  herself,  "this  thing  which  hurts 
me  now  so  cruelly  is  a  summer  thunder-shower  too. 
And  when  I  go  back  to  the  old  life,  mayhap  I  shall 
step  forth  into  the  light  again." 


CHAPTER  XXV 


OY'S  shrinking  eyes  opened  unwill 
ingly  to  the  morning  light.  With 
the  surprise  which  the  young  always 
feel  to  find  that,  however  the  heart  be 
torn,  the  processes  of  nature,  the  eat 
ing,  the  drinking,  and  the  sleeping, 
still  go  on,  she  discovered  that  she 
had  slept  till  ten  o'clock. 

Zette  was  in  the  room,  sitting,  or  squatting,  near  the 
foot  of  her  couch,  plying  a  monster  fan.  She  smiled 
delightedly  when  Joy  awoke,  and  said :  "Momzelle  has 
slept  like  one  baybee.  Oh,  how  sweetly  momzelle  has 
slept!  All  the  gentlemen  who  were  at  the  ball  last 
night  have  broken  hearts  to-day  because  of  my  mom 
zelle,  and  here  she  lies  and  sleeps !" 

Joy  had  won  Zette's  adoration  without  trying  to  do 
so.  That  milk-white  skin  of  hers,  her  ruddy-gold  hair 
were  claims  enough  upon  the  dusky  damsel's  reveren 
tial  love.  "Would  that  I  might  sleep  forever,"  she 
murmured  wearily,  more  to  herself  than  to  Zette. 

"Ah,  wicked,  wicked  Joyous!"  called  a  laughing 
voice  from  the  doorway.  "You  desire  to  be  the  Sleep 
ing  Beauty  only  that  all  the  good  knights  may  be  slain 
outside  your  castle  wall,  till  a  fairy  prince  comes  to 
wake  you  with  a  kiss."  Madeleine  whirled  in,  all  in  a 
cloud  of  filmy  white,  sailed  over  to  the  bedside,  and 
kissed  her  cousin.  "I  know  I  am  a  good  girl,"  she  said. 
"I  think  I  am  a  saint,  not  to  hate  you  for  last  night." 

277 


278  MISTRESS  JOY 

Joy's  recollections  of  how  and  by  whom  she  had 
been  put  to  bed  were  very  hazy,  and  she  looked  about 
apprehensively  lest  her  ruined  ball-gown  should  dis 
close  the  secret  of  last  night's  excursion.  But  it  was 
Celeste  who  had  assisted  the  waiting  Zette  to  cleanse 
and  put  away  all  the  paraphernalia  of  the  ball,  and 
there  was  nothing  left  to  betray  poor  Joy.  Her  snowy 
negligee  and  slippers  were  laid  ready,  and  the  room  was 
set  in  its  usual  faultless  order. 

"What  shall  you  wear  to  the  theater  to-night,  Joy 
ous?"  demanded  Madeleine. 

"Must  I  go?"  Joy  almost  groaned.  Then,  realizing 
the  ungraciousness  of  the  question,  she  added,  "Will 
Tante  desire  it?  Is  it  necessary,  do  you  think?" 

"Necessary !  Listen  to  the  little  hypocrite !"  cried 
Madeleine.  "Ausite,"  she  called,  as  her  sister  flitted 
past  the  door,  "here  's  Joyous  fishing  for  compliments. 
She  would  have  us  to  say  how  proud  we  are  of  the  con 
quest  she  made  of  the  duke." 

Ausite  swam  into  the  room  with  all  sails  set,  like 
a  little  ship  of  war,  and,  to  continue  the  simile,  bom 
barded  Joy  with  a  broadside  of  kisses  and  admiring 
exclamations.  Of  course  she  must  go;  maman  would 
be  desolee.  The  prince  was  to  sail  for  Spain  on  the 
morrow.  He  must  have  every  caprice  gratified. 

Joy  found,  with  a  repugnance  which  she  sought  to 
stifle  as  unworthy  and  unkind,  that  her  importance  in 
the  eyes  of  these  young  relatives  was  very  considerably 
augmented  by  the  attentions  she  had  received  from  roy 
alty.  Her  sick  soul  loathed  it  all.  She  felt  no  emo 
tion  save  a  weary  craving  to  be  at  home  in  her  father's 
house,  and  yet  these  relatives  had  been  kind  to  her, 
in  their  own  way,  which  was  not  her  way,  they  loved 
her.  And  she  obediently  donned  the  dress  she  was  told 
to  assume,  and  accompanied  the  royal  party  to  the 
theater. 


MISTRESS   JOY  279 

The  one  theater  in  the  New  Orleans  of  that  day  was 
small,  but  served  amply  for  the  size  of  the  city.  It 
consisted  of  a  horseshoe  of  boxes,  with  an  amphithea 
ter  in  the  center  raised  above  the  pit;  above  the  horse 
shoe  was  a  gallery. 

The  plays  were  performed  in  French,  and  the  acting 
was  creditable.  The  music  accompanying  the  plays 
was  invariably  amateur,  as  we  should  now  say,  being 
furnished  by  some  of  the  most  distinguished  gentle 
men  in  the  city.  There  was  none  other  to  be  obtained, 
and  it  was  frequently  the  most  excellent  feature  of  the 
performance.  On  this  occasion,  in  honor  of  the  ex 
iled  Bourbon,  everything  had  been  arranged  with  espe 
cial  care.  The  theater  was  in  gala  attire,  its  boxes 
draped  in  the  colors  of  France,  gay  with  scarfs  and 
knots  and  rosettes. 

Two  boxes  thrown  into  one,  the  arms  of  the  Bour 
bons  blazoned  upon  them,  had  been  set  apart  for  the 
prince  and  his  friends.  Everywhere  the  Bourbon  lilies 
spoke  in  a  universal  tongue  to  these  volatile,  emotional 
Frenchmen. 

Filled  with  the  most  elegant  men  and  beautiful 
women  of  New  Orleans  and  Paris,  in  their  satins  and 
jewels  and  laces,  with  powdered  hair  and  patches  and 
paint  and  shining  eyes,  rarely  has  a  modern  play-house 
presented  a  more  dazzling  setting  even  for  royalty 
itself. 

As  Joy  placed  herself  behind  Tante's  ample  shoul 
ders — a  Creole  demoiselle  of  the  day  was  not  put  upon 
display  in  public  places — she  looked,  in  spite  of  the 
dull  heartache  which  underlay  her  every  thought,  with 
some  interest  at  the  brilliant  scene  before  her.  No 
where  in  the  New  World  could  have  been  found  any 
thing  so  nearly  resembling  the  Paris  of  that  day. 
Full  dress  was  the  rule,  and  men  vied  with  women  in 
the  brilliance  and  beauty  of  their  costumes.  The  entry 


280  MISTRESS   JOY 

of  the  duke  was  the  signal  for  a  wild  burst  of  applause. 
He  bowed  smilingly.  But  again  and  again  the  cheers 
burst  forth,  handkerchiefs  were  waved,  and  kisses 
were  thrown  to  him  in  answer  to  his  own  repeated 
salutes. 

This  feeling  of  the  exiled  royalists  for  the  exiled 
scion  of  their  royal  house  had  in  it  something  touching 
which,  although  she  was  quite  ignorant  of  such  mat 
ters  and  had  been  brought  up  to  regard  courts  and 
kings  as  among  the  lures  of  the  flesh,  Joy  could  not 
fail  to  appreciate.  Leaning  around  Tante's  shoulder, 
she  glanced  up  at  the  blithe,  gallant  young  gentleman 
who  stood  for  so  much  to  these  cheering  people,  and 
her  eyes  rilled  with  tears. 

The  play  was  a  French  classic.  The  theater  was 
no  longer  new  to  Joy,  and,  with  her  heart  so  full  of  its 
own  tragedy,  the  painted  scene,  the  mimic  passion  could 
not  hold  her  attention  for  a  moment.  Safe  back  in 
her  obscurity,  she  drooped  her  weary  head  and  tried  to 
think.  She  had  already  told  her  uncle's  family  that  she 
must  go  home  at  once.  Her  Uncle  Henri  found  that  a 
keel-boat  was  going  up  the  river  on  the  morrow. 
Tante  Ausite,  who  thought  it  inexpressibly  shocking 
that  a  demoiselle  should  make  such  a  trip  alone,  was 
sending  Zette  with  her.  Zette  was  a  present  from  this 
affectionate  aunt  to  the  niece  of  whom  she  was  both 
fond  and  proud.  The  negress  was  in  a  transport  of 
delight  at  thought  of  going  with  and  belonging  to  an 
adored  young  mistress.  She  had  packed  away  most  of 
the  pretty  dresses  and  quantities  of  little  trinkets  and 
keepsakes.  Dear  little  baubles  they  were,  brought  and 
given,  with  the  fondest  caresses  and  tears,  to  sweet 
cousin  Joyous  by  the  members  of  the  big,  loving,  en 
thusiastic  household.  A  certain  peace  came  to  Joy — 
partly  it  was  the  peace  of  weariness  and  partly  the 
serenity  of  an  unalterable  resolution — as  she  consid- 


MISTRESS  JOY  281 

ered  these  preparations  and  hugged  the  thought  of 
being  at  home  once  more. 

In  the  midst  of  her  musings,  the  curtain  descended. 
There  was  a  stirring  in  the  audience,  and  with  the 
bursting  forth  of  orchestral  music  came  also  a  hum  of 
conversation.  Joy  raised  her  head  and  began  glancing 
idly  about  at  the  people  in  the  theater. 

Across  from  her,  almost  opposite,  sat  a  very  beauti 
ful  woman.  The  girl's  eyes  singled  her  out  because  she 
appeared  to  be  alone,  and  because  of  a  certain  defiant 
hardihood  in  her  bearing.  But  as  Joy  regarded  her, 
she  became  aware  that  the  woman  was  not  alone;  her 
escort  merely  sat  where  he  was  screened  behind  the 
sheltering  curtains.  Something  in  the  curve  of  his 
arm,  the  white  hand,  half  hid  in  its  lace  ruffle,  that  he 
had  laid  upon  the  box-ledge,  was  familiar.  As  Joy 
looked,  the  woman  turned  and  addressed  him.  He 
bent  forward,  and  showed  the  face  of  Jessop. 

Again,  as  at  the  ball  last  night,  Joy  felt  that  qualm 
of  deadly  sickness  come  over  her.  She  feared  that  she 
should  faint;  but,  though  she  drew  back  quite  in  the 
shadow,  and  pushed  the  curtain  so  that  it  might  shield 
her  more,  her  eyes  never  left  Jessop's  face. 

He  was  laughing  as  he  talked,  but  not  pleasantly 
nor  kindly.  Something  in  her  fixed  gaze  must  have 
drawn  his,  for  he  turned  toward  the  royal  box  and  scru 
tinized  the  duke's  party.  Lifting  a  lorgnette  from  the 
woman's  lap,  he  raised  it  to  his  eyes  and  looked  again. 

Joy  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  searching  for  her. 
She  had  told  him,  when  he  asked  her  at  the  ball  the 
night  before,  that  she  should  not  attend  the  theater 
with  the  Valentines.  Now,  as  she  almost  crouched 
there,  horrified  and  shuddering,  the  duke  bent  forward 
and,  concluding  some  remark  in  regard  to  Natchez  and 
the  entertainments  there,  said :  "Is  it  not  so,  Made 
moiselle  Valentine?" 


282  MISTRESS  JOY 

A  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  swept  over  Joy.  Why 
was  it,  she  asked  in  her  soul,  as  many  a  woman  has 
asked  before  and  many  will  do  after  her,  that  a  man 
can  do  shamelessly,  boldly,  things  at  which  a  \voman 
looking  on,  his  victim  only,  must  blush  and  shrink  and 
tremble  ? 

The  intrepid  spirit  of  old  returned  to  her.  Up 
came  her  regal  little  head,  and  the  color  flashed  into 
her  pale  cheeks.  She  answered  the  duke  merrily, 
averring  that  her  time  was  so  taken  up,  dressing  the 
hair  of  gallants  who  were  to  adorn  the  ball  at  Natchez 
that  she  had  no  time  to  attend  the  festivities.  "Mon- 
seigneur,"  she  concluded,  "you  may  have  forgotten 
that  I  had  not  then  learned  to  dance.  What  should  a 
demoiselle  who  could  not  dance  do  at  a  ball?" 

"Break  hearts,  an  she  be  Mistress  Joyce  Valentine," 
rejoined  the  duke,  gallantly. 

When  Jessop's  glass  focussed  upon  Joy's  laughing, 
brilliant  face  he  lowered  it  with  an  oath.  "I  thought 
she  spoke  truth,  but  they'll  all  lie,  damn  them!"  he  said. 

His  glance  traveled  to  the  duke.  "Higher  game," 
he  sneered. 

Madame,  a  woman  used  to  the  instant  reading  of 
faces  and  events,  noted  his  agitation,  caught  up  the 
glass,  and  for  herself  examined  into  the  cause  of  it. 

Jessop  half  rose,  sat  down,  trifled  a  moment  un 
easily  with  some  tablets  which  he  drew  from  his  pocket, 
and  then,  putting  them  aside,  took  out  a  slip  of  paper 
and  began  to  write. 

Madame's  hard  eyes  never  left  him  as  he  wrrote,  and 
her  busy,  quick  brain  was  scheming.  The  note  writ 
ten  and  folded,  he  called  one  of  the  liveried  negro  at 
taches  of  the  theater,  and,  with  a  fee,  gave  directions 
that  the  billet  be  slipped  unnoticed  into  the  hand  of  the 
lady  whom  he  indicated. 

Joy  felt  the  touch  upon  her  arm,  and  Zette — the  wait- 


MISTRESS  JOY  283 

ing-woman  of  that  time  was  used  to  such  errands — 
pushed  the  folded  paper  into  her  mistress's  fingers. 

Some  instinct  told  her  what  the  note  was.  The  cur 
tain  was  up  again.  The  players  were  upon  the  stage. 
Joy's  eyes  noted  their  movements  calmly,  as  she  sat  ap 
parently  watching  the  scene  with  pleased  interest,  while 
Jessop's  note  lay  unread. 

The  Joyce  of  last  night — the  stormy,  tumultuous, 
battling  Joyce — was  to  the  Joyce  of  this  evening  what  a 
blazing  prairie  is  to  that  same  plain  when  the  flames 
have  gone  over  it,  leaving  it  a  blackened  waste. 

Since  her  first  recoil  at  sight  of  Jessop  and  the 
woman  whom  she  believed  to  be  his  wife,  she  felt  no 
more  shame  nor  fear,  not  even  disgust.  Anger  was 
dead  in  her.  She  was  conscious  only  of  a  dull  wish 
not  to  read  his  note. 

Finally,  with  a  feeling  more  of  weariness  than  aught 
else,  she  drew  out  the  paper,  glanced  over  it,  and  read : 

"Are  you  gone  up  too  High  to  look  dowrn  even,  upon 
Those  to  whom  you  once  Belonged?  That  you  are 
mine,  remember.  I  am  not  a  Man  who  gives  up  his 
own  to  Another.  I  must  see  you.  Where  will  you 
meet  me?  JESSOP." 

She  folded  the  note  with  great  precision.  Jessop's 
hungry,  imperious  eyes  were  on  her  face.  Through  his 
glass  he  watched  her  every  turn  of  expression  as  she 
tore  the  paper  slowly  through,  once,  twice,  three  times, 
then  from  her  hand  let  it  drop  absently,  a  little  shower 
of  fluttering  snow. 

She  never  looked  his  way  again,  and  his  efforts 
to  gain  access  to  her  were  fruitless.  Joy  could  not 
herself  have  told  whether  the  sight  of  Jessop  and  the 
woman  added  to  her  weary  distaste  of  this  life  or  no. 
But  for  some  reason  she  found  it  possible,  after  that, 
to  put  him  more  completely  out  of  her  thoughts. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

FTER  the  theater,  in  the  great  dining- 
hall  of  the  Valentine  mansion,  there 
was  a  late  supper  for  the  duke,  at 
which  he  took  his  formal  farewell  of 
the  men  of  New  Orleans  who  had 
been  foremost  in  doing  him  honor. 
When  Orleans  and  his  suite  had 


retired,  and  the  guests  were  departing,  Luis  Valentine 
signed  to  a  group  of  intimates,  and,  after  he  had 
speeded  the  others,  invited  these  chosen  ones  to  a  little 
smoking-room  on  the  floor  above. 

There  they  now  sat,  drinking  deeper  than  was  good 
for  their  wits,  and  playing  higher  than  was  good  for 
their  purses.  A  gray-haired,  red-faced  Irishman,  Cap 
tain  O'Neil,  a  bold,  ruffling  blade,  with  the  fire  of  youth 
and  the  duplicity  of  his  years,  was  leading  the  play 
along  routes  profitable  to  him.  The  room  was,  despite 
its  open  windows,  blue  with  smoke.  Luis  had  been 
losing  heavily  to  O'Neil,  and  had,  as  a  natural  conse 
quence,  applied  himself  to  the  specious  consolation  of 
the  wine-bottle. 

It  was  the  hour  and  the  situation  for  a  brawl,  when 
the  door  opened  and  Neville  stepped  into  the  room. 
Luis  raised  his  head  with  an  oath.  Since  the  day  on 
the  lake  there  had  been  at  best  an  armed  truce  between 
the  brothers,  and  at  worst  a  series  of  skirmishes. 

A  few  days  before  the  ball  Captain  Valentine  had 
spoken  to  the  commander  of  Neville's  company — a  very 

284 


MISTRESS  JOY  285 

proud  little  band  of  boy  soldiers,  independents,  state 
troops,  militia — and  suggested  that  his  own  comfort 
would  be  ministered  to  by  sending  the  boy  on  a  sort 
of  scouting  expedition  that  would  keep  him  out  of 
New  Orleans  till  the  festivities  were  over. 

The  youthful  captain,  jealous  of  respect,  was  flat 
tered  by  the  older  man's  familiar  approach,  and  so, 
amid  much  laughter,  the  errand  was  invented. 

Luis  had  not  met  Neville  for  two  days,  and  the  sight 
of  him  now  was  an  exasperation.  "Go  to  bed,  little 
boy,"  he  cried,  returning  to  that  first  taunt  which  so 
maddened  the  younger. 

Neville  was  well  aware  of  the  treachery  which  had 
cost  him  the  ball,  and  thereby  a  promised  dance  with 
Joyce.  Tall  as  any  man  in  the  room,  his  seraph's  face 
strangely  out  of  place  in  that  half-drunken  company, 
he  came  on  toward  the  table  and  sat  down.  "May  I 
join  you,  Captain  O'Neil?  Will  you  deal  me  cards?" 
he  asked,  openly  ignoring  his  brother. 

O'Neil  had  no  mind  that  the  play  should  be  ham 
pered  by  the  presence  of  a  moneyless  boy  who,  as  he 
conceived,  might  at  any  time  turn  informer.  He 
dropped  his  eyes  to  the  bits  of  pasteboard  before  him. 
"Captain  Valentine  is  my  host,  sir,"  he  answered 
finally — "and  yours,  if  you  would  join  this  company." 

Neville,  instead  of  flushing,  went  white.  O'Neil, 
who  was  watching  his  face,  counted  it  an  evil  sign. 
It  was  the  day  of  the  duello.  The  sword  which  hung 
at  each  gentleman's  side  was  not  there  merely  for  or 
nament.  O'Neil  himself  was  a  man  of  undoubted 
bravery  and  a  noted  duelist,  but  one  of  whom  it  was 
well  known  that  he  would  fight  upon  the  most  imma 
terial  provocation — or  none — to  gain  ends  other  than 
honorable. 

Colonel  Burr,  the  only  man  present  who  did  not  be 
long  to  Luis's  intimate  circle,  rose  and  suggested  de- 


286  MISTRESS  JOY 

parture.  "We  have  overstayed,  gentlemen,"  he  said. 
"In  the  charm  of  Captain  Valentine's  hospitality,  we 
have  quite  lost  count  of  the  hours." 

But  the  word  of  this  new  friend,  who  had  already 
gained  with  Luis  something  of  his  usual  influence,  was 
powerless  to  stay  the  rising  tumult.  "Sit  down,  Col 
onel  Burr,"  he  growled,  catching  at  the  other's  wrist. 
"I  promised  this  brat  a  thrashing  months  agone,  and 
't  is  in  my  mind  to  give  it  him.  Sit  down,  sir,  and 
behold  an  example  of  family  discipline." 

Neville  rose,  tall  and  pale.  "Gentlemen,"  he  cried, 
"I  am  without  a  sword.  Will  one  of  you  accommo 
date  me?" 

He  turned  instinctively  toward  that  voice  in  which  he 
had  heard  kindness ;  but  Burr  shook  his  head  smilingly 
and  dropped  a  hand  on  Luis's  shoulder,  holding  him 
forcibly,  that  he  might  not  rise. 

O'Neil  was  up  in  a  moment,  whipped  to  the  door, 
and  locked  it,  crying  over  his  shoulder :  "Here  's  a 
blade  for  you,  you  young  divil,  once  I  get  the  dure 
locked !" 

At  the  word  "sword"  and  at  sight  of  the  Irishman 
locking  the  door,  Luis's  face  changed. 

"Captain  Valentine,  this  is  your  brother,"  remon 
strated  Burr. 

"The  more  reason  he  should  be  made  to  smart 
for  't,"  boomed  O'Neil's  big  tones  from  the  doorway, 
where  he  was  unloosing  his  weapon.  "I  've  a  bit  of  a 
brother  in  O'Neil  Castle,  and  if  he  bruk  in  on  com 
pany  of  mine  with  'is  impudence,  't  is  I  would  never 
touch  him  with  hand,  but  I  'd  tache  him  with  steel." 

"Keep  your  weapon,  Captain  O'Neil,"  called  Luis. 
"No  need  for  steel  to  teach  a  cub  like  this." 

The  other  men  present  had  so  far  held  themselves 
strictly  neutral,  according  to  the  code  of  honor  in  that 
day.  To  one  of  these — his  cousin,  a  young  French- 


MISTRESS  JOY  287 

man,  Camilla  Decloussis — Neville  now  made  his  ap 
peal  for  a  sword,  and  was  almost  passionately  refused. 

"If  he  touch  me,"  said  Neville,  through  his  teeth — 
"if  he  dare  lay  finger  on  me,  I  shall  kill  him — I  have 
borne  enough !" 

A  young  Spanish  lieutenant,  Ignacio  Flores,  had 
unloosed  and  was  now  tendering  his  blade. 

The  boy  accepted  the  weapon,  and  backed  toward 
the  wall.  He  was  a  good  swordsman,  better  perhaps 
than  his  brother,  but  at  his  years  the  hardness  of  mus 
cle  requisite  for  much  staying  power  was  not  possible. 

"I  will  not  be  struck,"  he  panted.  "I  will  not  be 
degraded.  I  will  have  the  treatment  of  a  gentleman." 

''Have  it,  then,"  snarled  Luis,  past  all  bounds. 

Code  or  no  code,  Decloussis,  a  relative,  could  bear 
the  pressure  no  longer.  "You  said  you  meant  to  thrash 
him,  Luis,"  he  burst  out.  "For  God's  sake  put  up  the 
swords — put  up  the  swords !  Oh,  my  God !"  as  Luis's 
blade  flashed  from  the  scabbard.  "Will  nobody  stop 
them?"  and  he  dropped  his  head  on  the  table  among 
the  cards  and  sobbed. 

His  neighbor,  Flores,  looked  at  him  contemptuously. 
Both  were  Latins,  but  the  sterner  mold  of  the  Span 
ish  character  only  hardened  before  the  ghastliness  of 
the  situation. 

Neville  stood  at  bay.  Those  about  the  table  held 
back  from  him,  as  men  do  hold  back  from  one  in  ex 
tremity,  fearing  to  be  involved  in  his  downfall. 

The  boy's  large,  fawn-like  eyes  roved  from  side  to 
side  of  the  company.  "I  have  no  second,  gentlemen," 
he  repeated  again  and  yet  again,  in  a  tone  which  began 
to  be  piteous.  "Is  nobody  with  me?  Colonel  Burr, 
do  I  fight  alone?" 

Burr  had  from  the  first  made  a  strong  effort  to  take 
the  matter  lightly,  to  assume  toward  it  his  habitual 
attitude  of  command.  But  as  he  remonstrated  with 


288  MISTRESS  JOY 

the  maddened  elder  brother  and  contemplated  the 
touching  figure  of  the  younger,  a  look  of  horror  settled 
upon  his  face.  The  hatefulness  of  the  position  thrust 
upon  him — that  of  impotent  onlooker  or  participator  in 
the  unnatural  tragedy — was  appallingly  clear  to  him. 

"I  cannot  assist  you,  M.  Valentine,"  he  answered 
shortly.  "Gentlemen,  I  refuse  to  be  present.  I  bid 
you  good  evening.  As  Captain  O'Neil  holds  the  door, 
I  shall  make  here  my  exit." 

He  turned  swiftly  to  the  open  window,  and  stepped 
out  upon  the  balcony.  Behind  him  rose  a  storm  of 
oaths  and  cries.  The  adversaries,  united  in  a  common 
dismay,  rushed  pell-mell  toward  the  window,  and,  jam 
ming  in  that  narrow  opening,  gave  Burr  a  moment  of 
grace.  He  glanced  coolly  about  the  little  iron-railed 
gallery.  It  crossed  the  window  of  another  room, 
but  that  window  was  shut.  Without  hesitation,  he 
mounted  the  railing,  swung  himself  lightly  over,  and, 
finding  footing  in  a  riot  of  vines,  dropped  easily  to  a 
balcony  below.  Behind  him  was  the  lamp-lit  room, 
hazy  with  smoke,  foul  with  the  stale  odor  of  wine,  its 
half-tipsy  occupants  bent  upon  doing  or  seeing  murder. 
Outside,  there  was  the  pallid  hint  of  dawn,  and  the 
dawn's  chill  breath  struck  cool  upon  the  fever  of  that 
scene. 

It  needed  not  this  tonic  air,  however,  to  steady 
Aaron  Burr's  purpose.  At  the  risk  of  something  dear 
to  a  man  of  his  temper,  facing  the  chance  that  he  might 
be  branded  a  coward  in  that  he  had  infringed  the  code 
of  honor,  he  was  going  for  help. 

The  gallery  upon  which  he  had  dropped  was  a  long 
one.  Tearing  himself  free  from  the  vines,  carrying 
unconsciously  a  great,  blossoming  streamer  on  his  arm, 
he  hurried  its  length  past  the  windows,  seeking  a  door 
or  stairway. 

He  was  brought  to  sudden  halt  by  a  face  at  one  of 


MISTRESS  JOY  289 

the  casements.  Joy,  unable  to  sleep,  had  sent  Zette 
away;  now  she  sat,  fully  dressed,  looking  out  into  the 
night. 

"Mistress  Joy !"  cried  Burr. 

"Colonel  Burr!  What  is  it?"  came  the  swift  re 
sponse. 

"  'T  is  murder  being  done  in  the  room  above,"  re 
turned  Burr.  "Your  uncle — where  can  I  find  him? 
Quick,  Mistress  Joy !" 

"My  cousins?"  inquired  the  girl.  "Luis — has — 
Take  me  to  them." 

"You  cannot  go  as  I  came,"  whispered  Burr,  "and 
they  have  the  door  locked." 

"This  way,"  breathed  Joy.  She  stepped  without, 
leading  him  through  a  door  and  toward  a  stairway. 
"The  room  next  Luis's,  is  it  not?"  she  whispered,  as 
they  ran  hand  in  hand  through  the  dark  hall.  "Did 
Luis  strike  the  boy?" 

"  'T  is  that  accursed  thing  they  call  a  duel,"  an 
swered  Burr;  "that  devil's  code  which  counsels  a  man 
to  barter,  for  a  perverted  honor,  his  peace  of  mind,  his 
very  hopes  of  heaven." 

Burr's  confidence  in  the  girl's  quick  wit  was  rein 
forced  by  a  belief  that  she  was  herself  the  real  subject  of 
quarrel  between  the  brothers,  and  would  be,  therefore, 
the  one  most  suitable  to  quell  the  storm. 

She  led  him  up  the  stairs  and,  through  an  unoccu 
pied  room,  to  that  closed  window  which  gave  upon  the 
balcony  outside  the  smoking-room,  the  window  which 
Burr  had  passed — finding  it  fastened — as  he  hastened 
for  help.  Through  it  they  stepped  onto  the  balcony, 
and  came  quickly  and  silently  to  the  window  of  the 
smoking-room  itself.  The  men  had  not  thought  it 
worth  while  to  barricade  this  entrance,  but  had  rather 
turned  to  get  the  affair  over,  if  they  might,  before  in 
terference  should  arrive. 
19 


290  MISTRESS  JOY 

Decloussis  still  sat,  his  head  upon  the  table.  He 
might  have  been  asleep,  except  that  now  and  again  a 
start  or  shudder  took  him.  The  Spaniard  was  second 
ing  Neville,  while  O'Neil  stood  beside  Luis. 

The  center  of  the  tiny  room  was  cleared — it  was  a 
deadly  place  for  sword-play.  Luis  was  darkly  flushed, 
the  light  of  madness  in  his  eyes. 

It  appeared  that  the  men  had  been  placed,  and  a 
round  fought.  Burr  and  Joyce  heard  the  clash  of  steel 
as  they  came  up.  Then  it  ceased  suddenly,  and  Luis 
panted,  in  a  voice  half  smothered  with  rage :  "I  '11  not 
kill  thee,  poor,  pretty  fool — because  thou  art  a  Valen 
tine — but  I  '11  mark  that  baby  face  of  thine — till 
she—" 

The  last  word  wrought  his  adversary  to  fury  past 
bearing.  Without  waiting  for  the  seconds  to  give  the 
word  to  recommence,  he  cried,  in  his  clear,  boyish 
tones:  "On  guard!" 

The  window  was  latched  or  bolted;  Burr  had  tried 
it  with  his  hand.  Now  he  raised  his  foot  and  drove  it 
inward  with  a  great  clattering  of  glass. 

As  the  two  burst  into  the  room,  the  men  all  turned 
to  them  with  such  composure  as  they  could  muster,  even 
Decloussis  sitting  up  and  disclosing  a  tear-stained  face. 

The  blades,  which  had  crossed  with  a  shattering 
clang  just  after  Neville's  words,  were  dropped  in 
stantly.  Luis  came  toward  them,  breathing  fast,  but 
smiling.  "How  now,  sweet  cousin?"  he  said.  "You 
have  interrupted  a  bit  of  practice." 

"Luis!"  cried  Joy,  in  a  voice  of  anguish.  "My 
cousin — oh,  how  could  you!" 

She  had  run  to  him  and  clasped  his  sword-arm 
with  both  shaking  hands.  He  laid  possessive  fingers 
over  those  two  small  hands,  and  answered  reassur 
ingly  :  "  'T  was  but  a  fencing-bout,  and  all  in  the  best 
spirit,  ma  cousine" 


MISTRESS  JOY  291 

Captain  O'Neil,  muttering  beneath  his  breath,  "The 
cause  of  the  ruction,  by  God!  Might  have  known 
't  was  more  than  cards,"  slipped  stealthily  toward  the 
door,  that  he  might,  unobserved,  turn  back  the  key. 

Colonel  Burr's  eye  was  upon  him,  however,  and  that 
gentleman  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  If  O'Neil 
was  giving  up  the  case,  there  would  be  no  further 
trouble. 

When  the  Irishman  came  forward,  full  of  voluble 
compliments,  desiring  to  be  presented  to  Mistress  Val 
entine  that  he  might  reassure  her,  Joy  turned  her  back 
upon  him,  not  unkindly,  but  rather  as  though  unable 
either  to  see  or  hear  till  her  mind  was  set  at  rest. 

"Luis,"  she  urged,  "promise  me.  I  cannot  forget 
those  dreadful  words  you  said  on  the  lake.  They 
haunt  me,  and  make  me  feel  myself  a  creature  of  ill 
omen.  Promise  me.  Neville — "  She  turned  her 
head. 

"My  brother  will  tell  you,  as  I  do,  Joyous,  that 
't  was  only  a  friendly  bout  at  fencing,"  Luis  inter 
rupted,  in  a  raised,  warning  tone. 

"  'T  was  naught  more,"  came  Neville's  voice  faintly, 
from  where  he  stood. 

Luis  frowned  savagely,  and  bit  his  lip  at  the  half 
hearted  acquiescence.  But  Joy,  whose  loving  eye  was 
quicker  than  another's,  sprang  toward  Neville,  and 
cried  out  so  sharply  that  the  Spaniard  caught  the  boy 
as  he  swayed  and  went  down. 

Then  his  head  was  in  Joy's  lap,  blood  from  a  wound 
upon  his  temple  dabbling  all  her  white  dress,  and  Celt 
and  Latin  burst  into  a  salvo  of  outcry  and  explanations. 

Burr  alone,  of  those  in  the  room,  retained  presence 
of  mind.  Dipping  his  handkerchief  in  a  flower-bowl 
upon  a  table,  he  knelt  beside  the  boy  and  wiped  away 
the  blood  to  ascertain  the  extent  of  injury. 

Upon  the  other  side  of  the  prostrate  form,  Luis  was 


292  MISTRESS  JOY 

on  his  knees,  weeping,  praying  heartbrokenly,  pub 
lishing  to  any  listener  the  full  extent  of  his  guilt  in 
the  matter. 

Joy,  sick  with  horror,  yet  preserved  sufficient  com 
posure  to  offer  Burr  more  prospect  of  assistance  than 
the  others. 

"  'T  is  a  scratch — a  mere  scratch,"  the  colonel  cried 
reassuringly.  "A  small  vein  hath  been  cut.  Pray, 
Mistress  Valentine,  press  with  your  ringer  here  to  stay 
the  bleeding  till  I  make  a  bandage.  Gentlemen,  give 
me  another  handkerchief." 

As  Burr  worked  with  light,  skilled  fingers  over  the 
wounded  youth,  poor  Luis  regained  himself  somewhat. 
"Must  you  go,  Captain  O'Neil?"  he  said,  rising.  "I 
bid  you,  then,  good  night,  sir." 

The  captain,  who  had  been  waiting  the  issue  of 
affairs — in  hope,  apparently,  that,  this  thing  smoothed, 
another  meeting  might  be  arranged  and  his  services 
still  required — took  the  check  with  an  equal  counte 
nance.  "Why,  then,  good  night,"  he  said,  smiling 
nonchalantly;  "and  good  night  to  the  beauteous  Mis 
tress  Valentine,  who  appears  to  be  skilled  in  the  wound 
ing  of  hearts  and  the  healing  of  heads." 

The  Spaniard  went  with  O'Neil.  Decloussis,  as  a 
member  of  the  family,  remained. 

When  Neville's  wound  was  bound,  his  face  bathed, 
and  a  little  wine  held  to  his  lips,  he  roused  himself 
enough  to  say  loyally :  "  'T  was  not  Luis's  fault.  We 
were  fencing,  and  there  came  a  noise  at  the  window, 
and  his  blade  slipped."  Then,  looking  up  into  Joy's 
tearful  face  above  him,  he  added,  with  a  child's  smile, 
"And  now  Luis  is  envying  me  my  broken  head,  because 
sweet  Cousin  Joyous  weeps  about  it." 

When  they  had  helped  him  to  a  couch,  Burr  asked  if 
Madame  Valentine  should  be  summoned. 

The  elder  brother,  with  God  knows  what  devils  fight- 


MISTRESS  JOY  293 

ing  in  his  heart,  stood  at  the  window,  his  back  to  them 
all.  "Why  should  she,  sir?"  he  answered  coldly. 
"You  heard  my  brother  say  the  thing  was  an  accident, 
and  you  yourself  have  told  us  that  the  injury  is 
naught;  why  should  you  call  my  mother?" 

Of  all  the  personal  griefs  which  Joy  had  suffered  in 
this  new  life  of  hers,  nothing  had  so  shaken  her  as 
this;  nothing  had  made  her  so  long  to  escape.  She 
went  to  her  cousin,  and,  whispering,  asked,  "Luis,  will 
you  promise  me?" 

"Nay,"  he  answered  fiercely;  "that  will  I  not.  You 
will  make  me  no  promise." 

In  her  bitter  need,  she  turned  unconsciously  to  the 
one  comfort  which  had  once  been  daily  bread  to  her, 
and  now  seemed  almost  forgotten.  "God  help  me, 
what  shall  I  do?"  she  said. 

The  simple,  humble  cry  touched  her  cousin's  heart 
— for  the  moment,  at  least.  "Joyous,"  he  began,  husk 
ily,  "I  will  not  promise,  but  I  will  tell  you  that  you 
may  trust  me  without  promises.  What  you  fear — I 
will  never  do.  But  such  women  as  you,  with  your 
beautiful  faces  and  your  cold  hearts —  He  paused, 
flung  out  an  impetuous  hand,  and  finished — "Such 
women  as  you  must  e'en  be  willing  to  face  the  natural 
and  inevitable  results  of  the  things  you  do." 

Joy's  hand  fell  from  her  cousin's  arm.  Had  he 
struck  her,  she  could  scarce  have  felt  the  blow  more 
acutely.  Her  sense  of  rebuff  was  physical.  Was  she 
indeed  such  a  creature  as  Luis  had  described? 

And  her  traitor  heart  answered  her  then,  and  gave 
her  lying  assurance  many  times  thereafter,  when  she 
brooded  upon  the  horrors  of  that  night,  that  the  accu 
sation  was  just. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 


UIS  cut  Joyce  to  the  soul  by  flinching 
from  sight  of  her,  as  a  monk  might 
flinch  from  some  carnal  temptation. 
It  was  the  morning  after  the  duel, 
and  the  last  day  of  her  visit  in  New 
Orleans.      His    great,    black    eyes — 
Luis's   bold,    challenging,    passionate 
The  too  ardent  glances  which 


eyes — sought  the  floor, 
she  had  deprecated  were  turned  aside  from  her  face. 
His  greeting — his  farewells,  even — were  brief,  con 
strained,  perfunctory.  Joy  forgave  him  with  quick 
generosity  when  she  saw  his  own  countenance  seamed 
and  marred  by  last  night's  experiences.  She  could 


guess  from  it  through  what  hells  of  self-abasement 
he  had  walked  since  dawn.  For  herself,  she  felt,  as 
do  the  noblest  women,  all  the  shame  which  should 
have  been  his,  and  before  the  high  tribunal  of  her  own 
heart  was  condemned  as  the  thing  which  his  perverted 
vision  had  seen  her.  She  loathed,  momentarily  and 
unjustly,  that  beauty  which  had  set  the  brothers  at 
each  other's  throats. 

Neville  was  nowhere  to  be  seen,  but  since  Tante  did 
not  mention  him,  Joy  timidly  forbore  to  do  so,  hoping 
his  wound  had  been  accounted  for  and  naught  sus 
pected. 

Uncle  Henri  insisted  that  she  go  down  with  him 
that  morning  to  choose  some  jewels  with  which  he  de 
sired  to  present  her.  Madame  Valentine  objected  that 

294 


MISTRESS  JOY  295 

no  demoiselle  went  to  shops,  but  Uncle  Henri  was  firm. 
Joyce,  he  said,  was  not  to  be  bound  by  the  rules  ap 
plicable  to  young  French  demoiselles.  She  was  a  vis 
itor  to  New  Orleans,  and  must  see  the  shops  along  with 
other  sights.  In  the  end  he  had  his  way;  the  volante 
was  brought  around,  and  Joy,  wearing  the  dress  in 
which  she  was  to  travel,  was  allowed  to  accompany 
him.  Madeleine  and  Ausite  occupied  the  front  seat, 
and  chattered  all  the  way. 

These  volatile  young  cousins  were  dear  to  Joy;  yet 
sometimes,  as  now,  their  insistent  gaiety  jarred  upon 
her.  The  carriage  drew  up  before  the  door  of  the 
principal  jeweler's  establishment.  These  little  New 
Orleans  shops  were  dingy  as  to  exterior,  but  the  wares 
within  were  as  fine  as  anything  to  be  bought  in  London 
or  Paris. 

As  was  customary,  the  jeweler  and  his  assistants 
came  out  to  them,  bringing  trays  of  rings,  chains  and 
bracelets  for  the  inspection  of  the  ladies.  While  Ausite 
and  Madeleine  bent  over  the  jewels,  absorbed  in  assist 
ing  her  selection,  and  their  cousin  tried  vainly  to  force 
into  her  manner  an  interest  which  she  did  not  feel,  a 
pitiful-looking  negro  girl  stole  toward  the  carriage, 
and,  crouching  on  the  curbstone,  stared  at  Joyce. 

One  of  the  clerks,  turning,  touched  the  child  with 
his  foot.  "Have  a  care,  'Sieur  Girarde,"  he  warned. 
"I  '11  wager  this  black  imp  here  is  bent  on  theft." 

"I  am  not,"  returned  Lalla,  indignantly.  "I  was 
looking  at  her,"  and  she  pointed  her  little  black  fore 
finger  at  Joyce. 

"Well,  take  yourself  off,"  said  M.  Girarde.  "Cease 
gaping  at  the  lady  and  begone." 

A  porter  carrying  one  of  the  jewel-trays  pushed  the 
child  a  trifle  roughly,  and  she  fell.  She  sprang  up 
and  turned  on  him  like  a  little  fury.  "I  will  look  at 
her — I  will!  I  would  rather  say  my  prayers  to  her 


296  MISTRESS  JOY 

than  to  Madonna  in  the  church.  She  knows  me.  She 
will  not  send  me  away." 

The  party  in  the  carriage,  who  had  been  so  absorbed 
in  the  choosing  of  Joy's  souvenirs  as  to  let  this  alter 
cation  pass  unnoticed,  were  now  attracted  by  Lalla's 
raised  tones.  "What  is  it?"  inquired  'Sieur  Valentine. 
"Did  the  child  snatch  one  of  the  rings?" 

"No;  but  I  doubt  not  she  is  a  thief,"  returned  the 
jeweler.  And  Lalla,  protesting,  was  being  shoved  to 
one  side,  when  Joy's  eyes  fell  upon  her. 

"Why,  't  is  the  child  I  saw  in  the  market!"  cried 
she.  Her  heart  smote  her  because,  in  the  preoccupa 
tion  of  her  own  sorrows,  she  had  made  no  effort  to 
trace  or  help  the  waif. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice,  Lalla  reached  up  both 
hands  and  clung  to  the  side  of  the  volante  as  a  drown 
ing  creature  might  cling  to  a  boat's  edge.  "How  do 
they  know,"  she  half  whispered,  indicating  the  jeweler 
and  his  assistants  with  a  motion  of  her  head,  "that  the 
white  devil  says  I  must  steal  for  her?" 

"They  do  not  know  it,"  Joy  reassured  her.  "None 
will  hurt  you,  child." 

Then,  turning  to  her  uncle,  she  told  him  briefly  of 
the  meeting  with  Lalla  in  the  market,  and  her  assertion 
that  she  was  a  free  negro  and  unkindly  treated.  And 
she  concluded,  "Dear  Uncle  Henri,  when  I  go  back  to 
my  home,  the  rules  of  my  Society  will  not  allow  me  to 
wear  these  beautiful  things  which  you  desire  to  give 
me.  Will  you  not  then,  instead,  allow  me  to  help  this 
poor  child?  Believe  me,  't  will  be  the  most  welcome 
gift  I  could  receive." 

"Why,"  said  her  uncle,  "for  the  matter  of  that, 
there  's  no  reason  you  should  not  have  them  both. 
As  for  the  rules  of  your  church,  they  would  permit, 
methinks,  that  you  should  eat  from  silver.  Your  old 
uncle  may  e'en  be  reduced  to  filling  you  a  dower-chest 


MISTRESS  JOY  297 

with  plate  if  you  may  not  wear  the  gewgaws.  As  for 
the  child,  she  seems  an  unpromising  brat  enough;  but 
if  you  say  you  want  her,  off  to  the  sisters  we  go,  and 
I  will  buy  her  for  you." 

So  much  of  this  as  she  could  understand  was  com 
municated  to  Lalla.  The  carriage  was  turned  and  the 
convent  visited;  but  the  sisters  told  'Sieur  Valentine 
that  the  little  negress  was  indeed  ownerless,  and  had 
been  merely  lent  Madame  along  with  Zoombi,  who 
was  hired  there. 

The  'sieur  drew  a  long  face,  whistled  a  bit,  and  said 
to  the  waiting  girls  in  the  carriage;  "Now,  my  lassies, 
home  with  you,  for  papa  has  an  errand  upon  which 
he  cannot  take  demoiselles." 

Joy  inquired  eagerly  as  to  the  prospect  of  success  in 
Lalla's  case,  and  when  he  admitted  that  he  was  now 
going  to  call  upon  the  woman  with  whom  she  was 
living,  she  begged  to  go  with  him. 

At  first  the  'sieur  demurred,  then  entered  into  some 
partial  explanations.  But  when  Joy  urged  that  she  was 
not  a  resident  of  the  town,  but  merely  a  sojourner 
going  at  once  away,  and  quoted  his  own  arguments 
used  in  regard  to  her  seeing  the  shops,  he  laughed  a 
little  like  a  naughty  school-boy,  said,  "How  horrified 
your  aunt  will  be!"  and  ended  by  sending  his  daugh 
ters  home  and  taking  Joyce  with  him,  in  a  hired  car 
riage.  And  so  they  called  together  upon  Madame. 

Madame's  house  was  long,  low,  not  imposing  in  ex 
terior.  Inside  the  furnishings  were  rich.  The  little 
reception-room  into  which  Joyce  and  her  uncle  were 
shown  was  crowded  with  unnecessary  furniture  and 
ornament,  and  when  Madame  herself  appeared,  over 
dressed,  over-jeweled  and  overdone  in  patronizing 
suavity  of  manner,  the  picture  of  the  woman  and  her 
life  was  complete. 

'Sieur  Valentine  did  not  present  his  niece,  but,  ris- 


298  MISTRESS  JOY 

ing,  stated  his  business  briefly.  Joyce,  overwhelmed 
at  unexpected  sight  of  the  woman  who  had  sat  beside 
Jessop  in  the  theater  box,  remained  stunned  and 
speechless  till  her  uncle  came  to  that  point  in  his  con 
versation  where  he  announced :  "I  desire  to  get  pos 
session  of  the  child,  that  I  may  give  her  to  my  niece 
here,  who  hath  a  fancy  for  her,  though  the  Lord 
knows  why." 

"Your  niece,"  repeated  Madame,  in  her  clear,  over 
bearing  tones,  "Mistress  Joyce  Valentine?" 

This  seemed  to  call  for  something  like  an  introduc 
tion,  and  'sieur  repeated :  "Mistress  Joyce  Valentine, 
Madame — "  He  paused  interrogatively,  and  Madame 
supplied,  with  savage  celerity,  "Madame  Jessop." 

She  looked  Joyce  over  with  the  measuring  glance  one 
adversary  gives  another  when  preparing  for  a  bout  at 
wrestling.  This,  she  felt,  was  no  milksop  miss,  but  a 
woman  to  be  reckoned  with.  New  plans  were  even 
then  brewing  in  her  mind ;  but  she  said,  with  much  com 
plaisance,  "Where  shall  I  send  the  girl,  and  when?" 

"To  the  keel-boat  which  leaves  for  Natchez  this 
afternoon.  My  niece  goes  home  by  it,"  returned  the 
'sieur. 

And  when  both,  declining  the  hospitality  of  fruit 
and  cake  and  wine  which  Madame  urged  upon  them, 
were  gone  forth  to  the  waiting  carriage,  she  laughed 
triumphantly  to  herself.  "So  soon  driven  from  the 
field — so  soon  and  easily!  Aha,  my  Jessop!  I  see 
you,  and  that  which  you  represent,  drifting  even  into 
my  hand." 

Joy's  departure  from  her  uncle's  home  was  the  more 
easily  accomplished  and  created  less  stir  in  the  house 
hold  because  Orleans  and  his  suite  were  upon  the 
same  day  embarking  for  Spain.  "You  are  more  for 
tunate  than  I,"  the  young  duke  said,  in  making  his 
adieus  to  Joyce.  "You  are  going  home,  while  I,  fair 


MISTRESS  JOY  299 

mistress,  am  setting  out  upon  travels  whose  end  I  can 
not  foresee." 

"God  grant  there  be  a  throne  at  the  goal  of  your 
highness's  wanderings,"  interposed  Madame  Valentine, 
fervently. 

Joyce  said  her  farewells  and  went  her  way  to  the 
waiting  carriage.  It  was  necessary  that  her  Uncle 
Henri's  family  should  remain  for  the  formal  leave- 
taking  with  the  royal  party.  So  only  Tante  Sophie 
and  Celeste  accompanied  Joy  to  the  landing. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf,  they  found  Neville  on  his 
horse  waiting  for  them.  His  rich,  dark  curls  were 
pushed  down  to  cover  the  strip  of  plaster  on  his  temple. 
Those  wonderful  eyes  were  all  alight;  the  confident, 
affectionate  boy  was  timid  and  tremulous  with  happi 
ness  that  he  was  permitted  to  be  her  cavalier. 

Joy's  luggage,  of  which  there  was  a  bewildering 
amount,  was  properly  placed.  The  conveyance  up 
stream  was  a  keel-boat  with  sweeps,  and  the  merchan 
dise  was  therefore  stowed  in  the  hold. 

When  Neville  had  lingered  to  see  the  last  chest  and 
package  in  place,  Joy  admonished  for  the  twentieth 
time:  "Maman  will  be  angry,  cousin,  if  you  are  not 
at  the  house  when  the  duke  departs.  Please  you  to 
hurry  back." 

"Joyous,"  he  whispered,  when  he  came  to  make  his 
farewells,  "Luis  hath  made  a  child  of  me — but  thou 
knowest.  Wait  for  me,  wilt  not,  dear  heart  ?  Let  not 
Luis  nor  another  persuade  thee  to  wed  ere  I  come." 

The  first  touch  of  actual  comfort  and  healing  Joy 
had  felt  came  to  her  with  the  boy's  words.  Somebody 
really  loved  her,  after  all.  There  was  truth  and  devo 
tion  in  the  world.  She  clung  to  him,  laughing  a  little, 
it  is  true,  yet  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "O  Neville,"  she 
said,  "you  will  find  some  one  much  better  and  more 
suitable  than  I  when  the  time  comes,  and  I  have  other 


3oo  MISTRESS  JOY 

thoughts  than  those  of  marriage  in  my  heart.  But 
just  now  I  cannot  help  being  glad  that  you  feel  thus 
toward  me.  There  will  be  some  one  after  a  while  to 
make  you  very  happy." 

"  'T  is  you  I  love,  Joyous,"  he  answered,  a  little  re 
proachfully,  "not  myself.  If  a  holy  life  calls  you, 
sweet,  as  we  have  all  fancied — if  that  be  your  meaning 
— why,  then  I  shall  be  blest  if  I  may  come  and  be  a  her 
mit  in  that  grove  near  your  home." 

"You  are  very  dear  to  me,  Neville,"  the  girl  an 
swered,  "and  my  heart  bleeds  for  my  other  cousin. 
You  must  love  your  brother  Luis,  if  I  am  to  love  you." 

As  she  spoke,  the  boy's  eyes  were  humid.  Across 
his  mind  came  the  vision  of  that  heart-shaking  thing 
which  had  chanced  to  him  at  sunrise.  It  was  after 
the  fight.  He  had  slept,  his  valet  Cesare  watching 
over  him.  Suddenly  he  was  awake;  the  room  was 
full  of  gray  light.  Cesare  was  gone.  Beside  his  bed 
stood  Luis.  No  other  man  can  be  to  a  boy  so  great 
as  can  his  elder  brother.  The  memory  of  that  brother 
kneeling,  groveling,  humiliated,  begging  for  pardon, 
still  rent  Neville's  heart  with  pity  and  shame. 

"Nay,  Joyous,  there  is  no  quarrel  between  Luis  and 
me,"  he  declared  loyally.  "You  must  not  think,  be 
cause  his  hand  slipped  in  a  fencing-bout,  that  there  was 
any  quarrel." 

When  Joyce,  tall  woman  that  she  was,  reached  up  to 
proffer  a  good-by  kiss  to  her  six-foot  boy  lover,  a  little 
ripple  of  the  irrepressible  fun  which  was  always  in  the 
girl  flashed  up.  "Farewell,  little  cousin,"  she  smiled. 
"I  shall  come  no  more  to  New  Orleans  until  I  come 
to  dance  at  thy  wedding.  And  doubt  not  I  shall  dance 
on  that  blest  day — yea,  though  I  have  ere  that  become 
a  preacher  of  the  Word,  and  should  be  cast  out  for  so 
doing." 

Neville  put  aside  in  true  man  fashion  the  allusion  to 


MISTRESS  JOY  301 

his  possible  marriage.  "I  have  been  urged  to  go  into 
the  priesthood,  too,"  he  returned,  and  added  seriously, 
''But  I  shall  always  love  you,  Joyous,  just  as  now." 

The  delicacy,  the  poetry,  the  distance  of  this  boy's 
passion  was  balm  to  Joy's  scorched  heart.  The  unsel 
fishness  which  asked  nothing,  gained  much  from  her. 
And  though  she  jested  again  about  dancing  at  his  wed 
ding,  Neville's  heart  was  full  of  pride  at  her  loving 
farewells. 


THE  WORLD  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

HE  boat  was  almost  ready  for  depart 
ure  when  David  Batchelor,  who  had 
been  detained  and  had  in  his  turn  de 
tained  the  craft,  came  hurrying  down 
and  boarded  it.  His  presence  brought 
a  sense  of  protection  and  comfort  to 
Joy.  Yet,  after  he  had  greeted  her 
and  asked  if  he  could  be  of  service,  she  saw  little  of 
him  till  the  boat  was  well  on  its  way. 

Zoombi  had  brought  Lai  to  the  landing.  It  was 
evident  that  the  parting  from  her  former  attendant  was 
full  of  terror  to  the  child,  yet  so  invincible  was  the 
dignity,  so  stern  the  self-control  of  this  little  stoic,  that 
she  made  no  outward  demonstration.  As  the  day 
wore  on,  she  followed  her  mistress  about  like  a  little 
black  shadow. 

Joy  sat  on  the  prow  when  evening  came,  her  sad, 
eager  eyes  searching  the  distance  before  her,  as  though 
their  longing  could  bring  her  more  swiftly  to  her  jour 
ney's  end. 

The  west  was  a  glory  of  purple  and  rose.  Even  the 
widowed  east,  deserted  by  the  sun,  flung  back  a  timid 
reflection  of  his  passing  smile,  and  mimicked  the  maiden 
blush  of  dawn  upon  the  piled  masses  of  her  clouds. 

Lalla  crouched,  a  faithful  silhouette,  at  Joy's  feet. 
The  great  gray  cape  which  Zette  had  brought  and 
folded  about  her  mistress  as  a  protection  from  possible 
chill  in  the  evening  air,  was  fallen  back.  Its  envelop 
ing  hood  had  dropped  from  her  bright  hair.  David, 
20  305 


306  MISTRESS   JOY 

coming  up  from  the  boat's  hold,  stood  looking  long  at 
the  picture  she  made  against  the  sunset  light. 

He  advanced,  and,  seating  himself  on  the  rail  be 
side  her,  asked :  "Mistress  Joyce,  are  you  glad  to  be 
going  home?" 

She  turned  upon  him  somberly.  "Glad  ?"  she  echoed, 
in  a  low,  passionate  tone;  "can  I  ever  be  glad  of  any 
thing  again  ?  I  feel  myself  a  leper.  I  am  going  home, 
sir,  to  see  if  at  the  touch  of  my  dear  old  father's  hand 
this  pollution  may  pass  from  me;  but  I  am  not  going 
home  in  a  hopeful  humor." 

She  dropped  her  head,  and  her  eyes  fixed  themselves 
on  the  water  as  the  prow  cut  slowly  through  it.  "I 
feel  sometimes,"  she  continued,  "as  though,  if  I  had  no 
home  to  go  to,  I  could  find  one  there,"  and  she  pointed 
down  to  the  sullen  tide  beneath  her. 

"Is  't  so  with  you,  my  little  friend?"  asked  David, 
tenderly.  "Have  things  gone  so  ill?  I  am  grieved 
to  my  heart's  core." 

"You  are  grieved !"  exclaimed  Joy.  "Yea,  and  you 
should  be.  'T  was  you  who  tossed  me  down  into  that 
current,  sink  or  swim,  to  go  clean  under  its  black 
waves.  But  for  you,  Father  Toby  had  never  thought 
nor  dared  to  do  such  a  thing." 

David  neither  denied  nor  affirmed  his  responsibility 
in  the  matter.  "Believe  me,"  he  urged,  "whatever 
wounds  you,  wounds  me.  Only  I,  who  am  a  man  and 
used  to  suffering,  would  that  I  could  bear  yours  for 
you." 

"  'T  is  lightly  said,"  returned  Joy.  "Men  can  nei 
ther  bear,  nor  know,  the  sufferings  women  must  go 
through.  I  think,  Master  Batchelor,  that  you  were 
rash  in  your  advice  to  my  father.  I  give  you  this 
grace,  that  I  believe  you  knew  not  what  you  did." 

"Nay,"  demurred  David,  "give  me  no  such  grace  as 
that.  I  knew  all  that  I  did,  and  yet  I  risked  it." 


MISTRESS  JOY  307 

}oy  looked  at  him  with  wonderment.  "Did  you 
guess,"  she  began,  in  a  half  whisper,  "that  I  should 
walk  with  erring,  sinful  feet  into  a  place  where  there 
was  neither  God  nor  duty?  Did  you  know  that  all 
my  old,  sure  faith  would  crumble  from  me,  and  did 
you  believe  that  in  the  end  I  should  find  this  fruit  of 
worldly  pleasure,  so  blooming  to  the  sight,  but  dust 
and  ashes,  so  that  my  mouth  was  filled  with  bit 
terness?" 

A  quiet  light  came  into  David's  face  as  she  spoke. 
"I  hoped  so,"  he  answered,  smilingly;  and  then  Joy 
turned  upon  him. 

"You  hoped  so?"  she  cried.  "Have  you  not  ruth 
nor  pity,  sir?  Think  you  't  is  well  to  put  your  fellow- 
creatures  to  the  torture?  Aye,  torture  sharper  than 
the  rack  or  thumb-screw;  for  while  those  hurt  only 
the  perishing  body,  this  is  the  pangs  of  hell  laid  hold 
upon  the  soul.  And  know  you,  sir — learn  all  your 
work — I  feel  now  sometimes  that  there  is  neither  hope, 
nor  love,  nor  trust,  nor  purity  left  in  me.  I  am  not 
only  soiled  and  fouled  by  these  things,  but  all  the  fabric 
of  that  which  was  irry  spiritual  life  is  wrecked  away 
from  me.  I  seem  to  see  myself  a  shivering,  naked,  deso 
late  soul,  adrift  upon  a  spar  in  the  ocean  of  doubt,  and 
not  one  kindly  beam  of  hope.  This  was  your  doing; 
and  you  say,  now  it  is  done,  you  like  the  work.  You 
think  't  was  bravely  done.  Well,  mayhap.  Nothing 
that  used  to  be  is  as  it  was.  Perchance  my  father  will 
come  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  revile  me,  or,  when 
I  reach  the  cabin,  will  drive  me  with  hard  words  from 
his  door.  All  things  seem  possible,  since  what  hath 
been." 

David  was  silent  so  long,  searching  for  an  answer 
which  might  be  helpful,  that  Joy,  turned  once  more  to 
her  moody  contemplation  of  the  water,  had  quite  for 
gotten  his  presence.  The  black  child  crouching  beside 


3o8  MISTRESS  JOY 

her  comprehended  little  of  what  passed,  yet  she  pushed 
nearer  to  her  mistress's  skirts,  and,  taking  the  hand 
which  hung  nerveless  at  Joy's  side,  caressed  it  softly, 
not  kissing,  but  stroking  it  with  a  light,  tender  motion, 
as  though  it  were  a  bird. 

Presently  David,  having  set  his  thoughts  a  bit  in 
order,  began  with  some  little  hesitation :  "I  doubt,  my 
sister,  if  you  are  quite  ready  to  hear  this  thing  which 
I  must  say  to  you,  and  yet  it  cannot  now  be  left  un 
said.  See,  dear  to  my  soul,  I  found  you  nearly  ten 
years  agone,  a  pearl  dropped  here  in  the  wilderness — 
we  will  not  say  cast  before  swine,  for  our  good  folk 
should  not  be  so  called,  but  we  will  say  uncompre- 
hended,  for  that  you  were.  Those  things  which  are 
your  chiefest  virtues  were  like,  in  the  narrow  beliefs 
of  our  Society,  to  be  named  failings,  to  be  even  called 
deadly  sin.  Ah,  little  Joy,  I  had,  myself,  won  through 
even  such  a  pass.  I  brought  a  sore  heart  with  me  into 
this  retreat.  Through  my  suffering  I  found  great 
peace.  Yet  I  had  lost  the  love  of  some  whose  love  was 
much  to  me,  and  I  had  made  some  grave  mistakes,  from 
which  't  was  my  thought,  if  the  time  should  ever  come, 
I  would  try,  as  best  might  be,  to  shield  you." 

The  thought  that  David  Batchelor,  always  simply 
one  of  the  pleasant  but  prosaic  facts  of  her  life,  had 
been  thus  concerned  for  her  was  new  to  Joy,  and  some 
what  softened  her  mood.  "Forgive  me  if  I  spoke  has 
tily  to  you,"  she  murmured. 

"Nay,  Joy,  between  you  and  me  there  will,  I  trust, 
never  be  question  of  wounding  or  forgiveness.  I  saw, 
dear,  long  ago  that  the  strait  creed  which  was  your 
father's  could  never  bind  your  spiritual  life — as  it  will 
not,  in  the  end,  bind  the  life  of  the  Society  itself.  I 
watched  with  anxiety — nay,  with  terror — as  I  saw  you 
full  of  zeal  to  become  a  preacher  of  the  Word,  who  had 
not  yet  tried  your  own  soul." 


MISTRESS  JOY  3°9 

Joy  hung  her  head,  and  blushed  for  shame.  "I  was 
a  presumptuous  fool,"  she  said  bitterly,  "who  thought 
to  teach  others,  when  she  herself  did  sorely  need 
teaching." 

"Only  young,  dear  heart,  with  the  beautiful  confi 
dence  of  youth,  which  needs  must  lead  aright,  though 
oft  by  difficult  paths.  You  have  in  you,  Joy,  the  soul 
of  a  poet — and  a  warrior,  too,"  he  added,  smiling  a 
little.  "  'T  is  a  richly  dowered  nature.  Every  fairy 
who  came  to  your  christening  gave  you  much,  and  the 
last  mischievous  one  brought  nothing  which  to  my 
eyes  was  a  fault.  She  simply  set  you,  dear,  in  such 
surroundings  that  your  best  gifts  from  the  other  fairies 
had  well  been  misunderstood — misprized. 

"When  Jessop  came — " 

Joy  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Speak  not  of  him!"  she 
cried.  "I  cannot  bear  it.  You  do  not  know.  Oh, 
never  mention  him  to  me  again!"  She  wrung  her 
hands  together,  and,  turning  from  him,  walked  the 
length  of  the  deck,  past  the  piles  of  merchandise, 
among  the  groups  of  passengers,  Lalla  slipping  in  her 
wake,  a  fold  of  the  white  dress  between  her  little  black 
fingers. 

When  Joy  came  back  her  face,  though  pale,  was 
quite  calm.  "Well,  what  of  Master  Jessop?"  she 
asked  quietly. 

"When  he  came,"  resumed  David,  "and  I  knew,  as 
I  did  almost  immediately,  of  his  lineage,  when  I  found 
the  man  one  to  charm  a  maid,  I  thought  perchance  that- 
other  half  of  your  bright  nature  would  come  upper 
most,  and  you,  who  might  be  almost  anything  you 
chose,  become  a  great  lady,  reconciling  this  young 
prodigal  to  his  own  people." 

Joy's  face  was  hard  and  cold.  It  had  softened  much 
during  her  conversation  with  David,  but  these  words 
brought  back  all  her  former  bitterness.  "The  man  is 


310  MISTRESS   JOY 

already  wed.  Let  us  not  speak  of  him.  'T  is  naught 
to  me  whether  he  be  wedded  or  no.  'T  was  only  one 
thing  among  the  many.  Methinks  that  you  can  tell  me, 
without  bringing  Master  Jessop  in,  why  you  were  fain 
to  have  me  put  to  the  torture.  Can  you  not  do  so? 
He  is  no  longer  part  of  anything  for  me." 

"We  cannot  say  that  of  the  past,  and  make  it  true, 
however  fain,"  demurred  David.  "As  I  say,  when  I 
thought  such  was  to  be  your  future — when  Jessop  came 
to  me  and  voiced  his  love  for  you,  and  begged  my 
intercession — " 

"Did  he  do  so?"  interrupted  Joy,  with  cool  con 
tempt.  "I  wonder  why  he  did?" 

"Then,"  David  continued,  "I  began  to  fear  that,  tak 
ing  up  a  life  so  different  from  the  one  to  which  your 
youth  was  trained,  you  might  find,  when  the  thing 
was  irrevocable,  that  it  had  been  the  wrong  thing. 
And  believing,  as  I  do,  that  all  souls  must  be  proved — 
yea,"  in  answer  to  her  look  of  inquiry,  "proved  in  the 
torture.  If  they  be  such  souls  as  yours  or  mine  they 
must  have  torture,  they  wring  it  from  the  common 
affairs  of  life — believing  this,  I  advised  your  father 
as  I  did. 

"And,  Joy,"  he  added  softly,  "I  am  not  sorry.  Be 
hold,  dear,  though  you  know  it  not,  an  ill  thing  hath 
done  you  only  good,  and  you  will  build  upon  founda 
tion  stones  hewn  by  the  strong  hands  of  this  pain  and 
doubt  a  new  Joyce  Valentine,  who  shall  be  better  than 
the  old,  wiser,  broader,  a  tower  of  strength,  'a.  very 
present  help  in  time  of  trouble'  to  all  about  her." 

"Think  you  so?"  asked  Joy,  wearily.  "I  only  know 
that  now  I  am  in  an  oozy  sea  of  unfaith  and  horror, 
and  that  I  think  I  never  shall  get  back  to  mine  old 
foothold." 

"Nay,  that  you  never  may.  God  grant  you  never 
shall.  We  must  go  forward  in  this  world,  dear  heart, 


MISTRESS  JOY  3" 

not  back  to  childish  things ;  and  when  you  find  a  better 
place  to  stand,  a  higher  outlook  on  this  world  of  ours, 
you  will  not  regret  the  past." 

In  the  long  days  and  nights  which  followed,  these 
matters  were  not  mentioned  between  the  two.  By 
mutual  understanding  they  were  dropped,  and  David, 
for  the  diversion  of  the  heart-weary  girl,  drew  upon 
stores  of  entertainment  unguessed  by  her. 

He  had  indeed  been  a  soldier,  had  traveled  widely, 
and  was  well  read.  But  most  grateful  of  all  to  poor 
Joy  at  this  time,  he  had  a  strong  and  restful  person 
ality,  not  ruffled  by  every  little  gust  of  adverse  opinion, 
but  bearing  steadily  and  calmly  toward  his  purposes. 

Batchelor's  hold  on  those  with  whom  he  came  in 
close  contact  was  very  marked.  He  laid  no  conscious 
finger  upon  any  creature.  It  was  the  srze  and  poise  of 
the  man.  Lesser,  weaker,  more  easily  moved  natures 
were  held  by  this  and  by  the  impression  that  he  gave  of 
reserve  force,  feeling,  stored  knowledge,  which  might 
at  need  be  disclosed  and  made  available.  Finally,  the 
attraction,  the  drawing  power  was  that  conjectured  in 
ner  sanctuary  from  which  a  suave  immobility  barred 
the  merely  curious. 

Jessop's  attraction,  equally  strong,  was  manifested 
along  the  lighter,  more  ephemeral  lines  of  fascination. 
The  charm  of  the  two  men  represented  the  subjective 
and  the  objective,  the  lasting  and  the  impermanent. 

Joy  and  David  sang  together,  as  they  had  been  wont 
to  sing  in  the  little  meeting-house  at  home.  Madame 
Valentine  would  have  held,  and  Joyce  while  under  her 
influence,  that  finding  upon  the  boat  an  unmarried  man 
with  whom  she  was  well  acquainted,  she  should  scarce 
speak  to  him  all  the  long  journey  through.  But  the  girl 
was  already  back  in  a  clearer,  freer  atmosphere.  Upon 
a  craft  like  this,  with  the  necessary  publicity  of  all  one's 
daily  living,  there  was  chaperonage  enough,  as  she  well 


MISTRESS  JOY 

knew,  to  satisfy  Father  Tobias;  and,  even  so,  she  was 
growing  to  the  stature  when  satisfying  Joyce  Valen 
tine  in  such  matters  was  sufficient. 

"I  wonder  much,"  she  said  one  day  to  David,  "that 
you,  with  all  your  love  of  freedom,  joined  yourself  to 
our  Society." 

"Why,  look  you,"  he  responded,  laughing  a  little, 
"I  have  not  bound  myself  even  there.  'T  was  the  best 
to  be  had.  I  was  done  with  the  old  creeds.  There  is 
a  purity  and  uprightness  among  the  followers  of  this 
new  faith  which  draws  me  to  them;  but,  as  I  say,  I 
have  not  bound  myself,  nor  shall  till  the  life  be  broader, 
holding  more  of  God's  love  than  now  it  doth." 

Something  of  the  old  Joy  was  coming  back,  or  was 
it  the  beginnings  of  that  new  Joy  which  David  so  con 
fidently  predicted?  She  turned  and  laughed.  "Mas 
ter  Batchelor,"  she  quoth,  "with  all  your  caution,  all 
your  determination  to  be  free,  how  will  you  ever  wed  ?" 

"When  the  time  comes,"  returned  David,  with  un 
expected  gravity,  "if  come  it  ever  does,  't  will  be  the 
one  bondage  sweet  to  me." 

And  somehow,  though  the  words  were  said  in  most 
impersonal  fashion,  and  not  one  glance  made  any 
nearer  application  of  them,  Joy  found  herself  blushing, 
and  turned  her  head  to  hide  this  strange  embarrass 
ment. 

If  the  Joyce  Valentine  who  traveled  back  over  that 
route  which  she  had  come  months  before  was  a  new 
creature,  it  surely  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  met  with 
a  new  David  Batchelor.  Always  a  man  to  command 
admiration,  she  now  saw  him  one  to  win  love. 

Once,  in  a  rare  moment  of  confidence,  David  spoke 
to  the  girl  of  his  people  and  his  home  in  Scotland.  "I 
come  of  a  line  of  ecclesiastics,  Joy,"  he  said — "Scotch 
Covenanters,  proud  of  their  blood  as  any  princes — 
proud  with  that  pride  which  apes  humility.  Daring 


MISTRESS  JOY  313 

to  think  for  myself,  I  would  fain,  when  I  came  to  man's 
estate,  have  lived  in  harmony  with  them  without  sub 
scribing  fully  to  their  creed — even  as  I  do  with  our 
Society  at  Natchez." 

"And  you  could  not?" 

"  'T  was  not  to  be.  I  loved  them,  but  not  their 
creed.  They  could  not  permit  me  to  distinguish  in 
the  matter.  I  gave  my  world,  as  it  then  stood,  for 
freedom.  I  have  always  thought  it  well  lost." 

There  were  whole  days  when  the  black  waters  went 
over  Joy's  soul;  then  nothing,  not  even  his  voice, 
reached  her.  At  such  times  she  sat  on  the  boat  edge, 
staring  at  the  river,  and  begged  to  be  let  alone.  How 
ever  Zette's  ministrations  might  be  rejected,  Lalla  al 
ways  crouched  beside  Joy,  and  if  she  could  gain  a 
moment's  recognition,  would  sing  or  talk  to  her  young 
mistress. 

It  was  then  Joy  learned  from  the  child  all  the  de 
tails  of  her  life  in  that  bright,  never-forgotten  past. 
A  desolation  so  much  greater  than  her  own,  sent  upon 
one  so  young,  and  borne  with  such  fortitude,  shamed 
her  to  once  more  trying  heartily. 

She  learned,  too,  from  Lalla  numerous  Latin  prayers 
and  chants.  David  found  her  one  evening  humming 
these  over,  and  corrected  here  and  there  her  Latin 
phrases.  Then,  joining  his  voice  to  hers,  they  sat  and 
sang  for  near  an  hour. 

"Veni,  Creator,  spiritus 
Mentes  tuorum  visita," 

rang  the  sonorous  words  across  the  water. 

Joy  looked  at  David,  and  smiled  a  little  ruefully. 
"Master  Batchelor,  she  asked,  "are  you  leading  me 
farther  astray?  We  both  know  right  well  what  the 
Society  would  think  of  these  Popish  chantings." 


3J4  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Nay,"  returned  David,  "we  are  neither  of  us, 
surely,  doing  any  ill.  Examine  your  own  heart,  Mis 
tress  Joyce.  Doth  it  not  tell  you  that  these  songs 
speak  also  of  God,  even  as  do  our  Methody  hymns? 
Yea,  and  the  day  shall  come  when  our  own  Society, 
reared  to  a  mighty  church,  grown  to  that  stature  which 
its  truth  deserves,  will  not  despise  any  form  of  earnest 
worship." 

"Think  you  so?"  inquired  Joy,  doubtfully.  She 
was  yet  a  child  in  some  things,  and  the  immutability 
of  the  laws  her  elders  made  was  still  one  of  her  prime 
beliefs.  "Why,  that  would  be  heaven,  indeed.  Could 
I  but  take  the  hand  of  those  once  in  spiritual  accord 
with  me,  and  say  to  them,  'Such  and  such  things  have 
I  done  which  were  wrong,  and  of  them  I  do  repent  me ; 
I  freely  renounce  them ;  I  will  do  them  no  more.  But 
such  other  things  also  have  I  done,  of  which  I  do  not 
repent,  because  they  are  not  wrong,  though  ye  have 
condemned  them,' — if  I  could  do  that,  Master  Batche- 
lor,  and  they  would  not  cast  me  out,  I  think  I  could 
take  up  my  life  once  more  and  live  it." 

"  'T  is  too  much  to  expect,"  murmured  David,  wist 
fully.  "I  would  that  I  could  spare  her,  but  the  time 
is  not  yet  ripe.  They  will  not  fellowship  her  now, 
and  yet —  He  turned  to  Joy.  "This  thing  of  meet 
ing  the  Society,  of  facing  all  that  you  have  done, 
't  will  come  to  you  how  it  shall  be.  You  are  much 
beloved,  Joy;  if  you  go  back,  saying  no  \vord  of  all 
these  things,  methinks  no  word  will  be  said  to  you 
in  return.  Your  father's  daughter  may  not  be  re 
proved,  nor  disciplined,  nor  cast  out.  What  think 
you  ?  Can  you  do  it  ?" 

Joy  looked  at  him  in  wonderment.  "Do  that?"  she 
cried.  "Sneak  back  into  the  fold?  Wouldst  have 
me?  WThy,  if  't  were  good  for  me  to  know  and  do 
these  things  which  I  have  done,  't  is  surely  well  I 


MISTRESS  JOY  315 

go  back  and  tell  of  them,  and  take  such  sentence  as  is 
imposed.     Is  it  not  well  to  do  so ?     Is  it  not?" 

"It  is,"  he  answered.  "God  grant  you  patience  in 
the  doing.  Patience,  my  fiery  friend,  't  is  all  you  lack. 

God  grant  it  you,  God  keep  you,  and  God  bless  you! 
j » 

He  turned  away  with  something  left  unspoken,  came 
back,  and  said :  "To-morrow  we  shall  be  home,  Mis 
tress  Joy,  or  so  the  captain  hopes.  To-morrow  sees 
the  beginning  of  this  fight.  I  will  not  come  to  you 
unless  you  send  for  me;  but  I  will  hope  that,  having 
any  need — the  lightest — you  will  send.  Will  you  do 
so  ?"  Joy  promised,  and  the  next  day's  noon  saw  them 
near  Natchez. 

Father  Tobias  was  waiting  at  the  landing.  His  ten 
der  acceptance  of  Joy  as  the  same  child  he  had  left  at 
his  brother's  house  in  New  Orleans  was  to  her  inex 
pressibly  touching.  She  laughed  fondly  at  his  trou 
bled  wonder  over  her  two  black  waiting-women,  her 
fine  attire,  and  apparently  endless  luggage. 

"Ah,  Father  Toby,  Father  Toby !"  she  said.  "Thou 
wilt  find  thy  Joy  changed  in  more  matters  than  those 
of  worldly  prosperity  and  worldly  attire." 

"Why,  now  I  look  at  you,"  returned  Father  Tobias, 
a  little  anxiously,  "this  frock  you  wear — 't  is  mon 
strous  pretty,  dear  heart,  do  not  think  I  criticize  it — 
would  surely  bring  you  under  discipline." 

The  boat  had  landed  to  discharge  Mistress  Joy  and 
her  parcels  at  the  little  wharf  near  the  cabin,  and  six 
miles  from  Natchez  as  the  river  ran.  There  was  none 
to  see  them,  none  to  remark  upon  the  offending  gown, 
and  Father  Tobias,  who  found  he  must  supplement  his 
one  bullock-cart  with  some  more  commodious  means 
of  transportation  if  he  would  get  Joy's  boxes  to  the 
house  before  nightfall,  bade  her  go  on  with  David,  and 
himself  would  follow  when  he  could. 


316  MISTRESS  JOY 

To  this  Master  Batchelor  would  not  consent,  but, 
sending  them  ahead,  and  giving  Lai  and  Zette  what 
they  could  comfortably  carry,  himself  set  about  the 
transportation  of  Joy's  baggage. 

Who  that  has  been  young,  gone  from  home  to  finer 
things,  and  then  returned,  does  not  remember  the  dizzy 
sense  of  unreality  which  comes  when  these  familiar  be 
longings  are  seen  once  more  with  that  new  vision  got 
ten  out  in  the  world  ?  Was  the  house  always  so  small  ? 
Has  it  not  shrunk?  Is  it  possible  that  we  lived  all 
these  years  lacking  so  many  necessary  things,  and 
never  knew  it?  Why,  calling  up  with  difficulty  the 
self  we  were  before  we  went  away,  we  can  remember 
that  we  thought  these  strange,  small,  dark,  unfriendly 
things  part  of  the  eternal  verities.  And  now  we  are 
come  back,  there  are  no  verities;  and  the  strangeness 
which  lay  upon  the  world  outside,  when  we  first  met 
it,  has  stolen  back  to  face  us  here. 

As  she  stepped  through  the  cabin  doorway,  Joy  felt 
an  impulse  to  bend  her  head.  The  portals  of  her  uncle's 
mansion  were  tall  enough  to  admit  a  man  on  horse 
back,  and  most  of  them  were  so  wide  that  a  coach  could 
have  been  driven  through;  and  the  great,  white,  lofty 
ceilings  gave  a  sense  of  space  and  freedom.  These 
low  rafters  of  her  father's  roof  closed  down  above  her 
head  so  that  for  a  moment  she  felt  a  resentful  sense 
of  being  shut  away  beneath  it  from  what  was  beautiful 
and  bright  and  high. 

But  this  bewildered  feeling  was  scarcely  more  than 
momentary.  The  bullock-cart  followed  them  close. 
Lai,  under  Zette's  direction,  was  busy  helping  place  its 
freight. 

Joy,  finding  that  Faithful  had  usurped  the  hearth 
stone  entirely  and  driven  Satan  out,  flew  to  the  door 
to  call  her  pet.  Then  on  to  the  fowl-yard  to  greet  its 
feathered  citizens,  and  so  to  the  cow-lot,  where  Father 


MISTRESS   JOY  317 

Tobias  found  her,  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  the 
Devon  heifer,  receiving  bovine  sympathy  and  caresses. 

Finally,  recalled  to  the  cabin,  she  found  that  Zette 
had  opened  the  dower-chest  of  silver,  and  also  one  of 
fine  linen — her  aunt's  gift.  "Only  zat  mamzelle  shall 
see  'im  before  Zette  put  'im  away,"  urged  the  negress. 
David,  coming  in  with  a  second  load,  found  Father 
Tobias  rather  more  distressed  than  pleased  as  he 
watched  Joy  examine  these  gifts.  She  had  not  seen 
them  before,  and  her  housewifely  soul  could  but  de 
light  in  them,  while  a  few  belated,  frost-bitten  doubts 
as  to  the  righteousness  of  such  delight — poor  little  off 
spring  of  lifelong  habit — limped  sadly  in  the  rear. 

When  David  was  gone,  and  the  two  negresses  in  the 
kitchen  preparing  the  evening  meal,  Father  Toby  put 
a  bewildered  hand  to  his  head.  "Methinks,  daughter 
Joy,"  he  said,  "that  you  have  brought  with  you  a  very 
considerable  portion  of  that  world  which  you  went 
forth  to  see." 

''Yes,  father,"  returned  Joy,  lovingly  and  gravely, 
"I  have  brought  the  visible  sign  and  token  of  it,  and  I 
fear  you  may  think  that  I  have  brought  more  of  it  in 
my  heart." 

"A  preacher  of  the  Word,"  suggested  the  old  man 
gently,  "should  not  wear  that  which  will  bring  her 
under  the  discipline."  The  offending  gown  had  not 
been  removed. 

"Father  dear,"  answered  Joy,  "I  hope  it  may  not 
wound  you — that  is  the  one  thing  for  which  I  now 
care;  but  I  have  not  one  garment  in  my  boxes  the 
wearing  of  which  would  not  bring  me  under  dis 
cipline." 

"I  fear — I  much  fear,"  said  Father  Tobias,  sadly, 
"  't  was  a  great  mistake  for  you  to  go.  You  were  too 
young.  You  should  not  have  been  subjected  to  this 
test." 


318  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Nay,"  returned  Joy,  firmly,  and  then  for  the  first 
time  the  meaning  of  it  all  unrolled  itself  before  her. 
She  realized  what  was  coming  to  her  out  of  its  turmoil 
and  distress.  She  saw  with  David  Batchelor's  eyes. 
She  knew  now  why  he  advised  the  thing,  and  she  added 
simply: 

"Father  Toby,  if  I  am  not  disciplined — but  I  shall 
be,  of  course — I  shall  myself  ask  the  Society  to  con 
sider  my  case.  I  want  to  speak  to  them  in  the  meeting 
house,  dear — there  where  I  presumptuously  believed  I 
was  called  upon  to  preach  the  Word — and  tell  them  of 
my  experience." 

"That  may  not  be,"  returned  Father  Tobias.  "  'T  is 
not  allowed.  But  Joy — little  Joy — my  little  daughter," 
he  added,  his  voice  breaking  suddenly,  "you  have  surely 
done  naught  which  would  bring  you  before  your  class." 

Joy  was  kneeling  at  his  knees  as  they  talked.  He 
took  her  face  between  his  hands,  and  gazed  into  it  with 
wistful  tenderness.  "  'T  is  the  same  face,"  he  mur 
mured,  "as  dear  and  pure — but  high-couraged.  Are 
you  sure,  my  dear,  that  you  do  not  in  this  matter  mis 
take  for  a  prompting  of  the  spirit  some  feeling  of  re 
sentment  at  that  yoke  which  we  all  must  wear  ?  I  had 
my  times,  daughter — when  I  was  young  and  perchance 
too  full  of  fiery  zeal — when  I  would  have  disputed 
with  the  very  founders  of  the  church.  That  's  youth, 
dear;  't  is  naught  else.  Consider  well,  daughter,  be 
fore  you  speak  of  these  matters  to — to — others  than 
your  old  father,  who  loves  you  and  who  understands." 

"I  will,  father,"  agreed  Joy,  briefly.  "I  will  con 
sider.  I  have  thought  of  naught  else  since  first  this 
thing  came  upon  me ;  but  I  promise  you  to  do  nothing 
rash;  and,  most  of  all,  I  long  to  spare  my  dear,  dear 
old  father  any  pang." 


CHAPTER  •  XXIX 


|T  fell  upon  the  morning  following  Joy's 
return  that  Father  Tobias  set  out  for 
one  of  the  near-by  stations  of  his  cir 
cuit.  The  cheerful  serenity  of  his 
daughter's  bearing  entirely  reassured 
him,  and  he  bade  her  good-by  with 
no  further  apprehensions. 
Immediately  her-  father  was  gone,  Joy  turned  as  one 
to  a  definite  aim.  She  began,  with  Zette,  to  set  the 
house  in  very  spotless  order.  Soon,  leaving  the  ne- 
gress  to  complete  the  work,  she  took  her  way  down  a 
wild  little  thread  of  path  to  the  hut  of  an  Indian 
woman,  a  mile  beyond  Father  Tobias's  cabin.  She 
was  seeking  Tohopeka,  that  she  might  send  a  message 
to  David  Batchelor,  bidding  him  to  her  at  once. 

June  had  breathed  full  and  warm  upon  the  Southern 
land,  and  all  sweet,  wild  things  ripened  into  richer  life 
under  her  magic.  Joy  looked  about  her  wistfully. 
Her  home  country  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful  to 
her;  the  birds  had  never  sung  with  so  much  rapture; 
the  sky  had  never  been  so  blue.  Spring  was  over.  It 
was  the  royal  outburst  of  lusty  summer,  and  her  heart 
rose  to  it.  Despite  the  deep  waters  through  which 
she  had  passed — nay,  the  more  for  them — Joy  Valen 
tine  still  stood  for  all  the  goodliness  of  youth  and  faith 
and  the  unshaken  hopefulness  of  living. 

The  little,  thready  path  now  left  the  open  pasture, 
with  its  straggling  growth  and  burning  heat,  and  con 
ducted  her  to  some  bars,  through  which  she  stepped  al- 

319 


322  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Doyce  dot  a  pitty  coat,"  he  announced  promptly. 
"Reasie  love  Doyce  much." 

"  'T  is  ever  thus  the  younger  and  more  frivolous 
of  mankind  are  snared,"  commented  David,  with  mirth 
ful  eyes. 

When  she  was  seated,  and  Reasie,  with  Lalla  in  tow, 
gone  to  display  some  childish  treasure,  Joy  had  time 
to  look  about  her  at  certain  changes  which  had  been 
made  in  the  room  since  last  she  saw  it. 

"Why,  David,"  she  commented,  having  come,  dur 
ing  the  intimacy  of  their  long  journey  up,  to  use  his 
name  familiarly,  "meseems  I  am  not  the  only  one 
who  hath  a  leaning  toward  the  flesh-pots  of  beauty  and 
luxury." 

"That  are  you  not,"  rejoined  David,  heartily.  "And 
yet,  Joy — 't  is  the  strangest  thing  to  me — I  knew  not 
fully  how  I  lacked  for  these  things  till  I  saw  you  amid 
a  worldly  setting." 

"Am  I  leading  you  astray?"  she  murmured,  a  little 
troubled,  and  then  she  laughed,  in  the  safe,  comfort 
able  assurance  that  here  was  a  soul  she  could  not  lead 
— or,  leading  in  the  least,  could  only  lead  aright. 

Now  she  put  forward  that  request  which  she  had 
come  to  make,  that  he  would  help  her  to  have  the 
class  take  action  upon  her  case  before  her  father's 
return. 

"These  friends  of  mine  must  know  me  as  I  am," 
she  said.  "Then,  if  they  cast  me  out — "  Her  voice 
failed  a  little  at  the  thought. 

"Why,  if  they  cast  you  out,"  supplied  David,  smil 
ing,  though  with  some  serious  meaning  in  his  tones, 
"  't  will  be  into  the  limbo  where  I  am.  Hast  ever 
thought  of  that,  Joy?" 

Joy  flashed  one  of  her  old,  quick  smiles  at  him. 
"Yea,  so  't  is,"  she  said.  "I  never  think  of  it.  You 
seem  so  one  of  us — and  not  the  least.  But,  after  all, 


MISTRESS  JOY  323 

were  I  cast  out  I  should  but  be  where  you  remain  by 
choice." 

The  thought  appeared  to  comfort  her.  She  made 
request  of  David  that  he  go  to  the  leader  of  her  class, 
explain  to  him  her  desire  for  discipline,  and  ask  that 
the  class  meet  in  her  father's  house  the  following 
morning. 

"I  so  much  want  to  have  them  all  hear,  David," 
she  added ;  "but  father  declares  I  may  not  be  judged  in 
the  meeting-house.  Will  you  not  beg  brother  Am 
brose  Gibson  that  I  may  have  as  many  of  the  Society 
bidden  to  come  as  be  willing  to  attend?  Believe  me, 
't  is  not  in  the  spirit  of  one  who  flaunts  what  she  hath 
done,  or  who  desires  to  offend." 

"Surely,"  returned  David,  "I  know  that,  and  am  in 
heartiest  accord  with  your  wish  in  this.  I  will  do  all 
I  can  to  have  this  matter  arranged  as  you  ask.  And  I 
will  come  betimes  to  tell  you  how  I  speed." 

As  they  took  their  way  homeward,  the  child  gathered 
armfuls  of  tall  ferns,  woodland  blossoms,  and  fra 
grant  leaves.  Joyce  remembered,  with  a  sort  of  pa 
tient  wonder  at  the  blackness  of  her  ignorance  in  times 
past,  that  she  would  once  have  thought  the  decking  of 
a  house  with  such  things  folly,  if  not  sin.  Now,  when 
Lalla  said  to  her,  "Can  you  reach  the  big,  white  flow 
ers,  Madonna?  Lalla  would  take  some  back  home 
to  make  the  house  beautiful,"  Joy  went  back  with  the 
child  along  the  path,  and  when  they  came,  in  the  grove, 
to  a  young  magnolia-tree  well  laden  with  fine  blos 
soms,  she  broke  an  arm-load  of  the  great,  creamy 
things,  each  white  chalice  in  a  setting  of  shining  green, 
and  gave  them  to  Lai  to  carry  on  before,  while  she 
should  follow  at  her  leisure. 

Her  purpose,  at  first  scarce  formulated,  was  now 
taking  complete  shape  in  her  mind.  Most  of  all  things 
on  earth,  the  natural  Joyce  Valentine  craved  love.  Yet, 


324  MISTRESS  JOY 

to  have  a  love  which  was  given  her  mistakenly,  which 
would  have  been  denied  her  had  she  been  fully  under 
stood,  this  was  what  her  honesty  could  not  brook. 

"They  shall  know  all,"  she  said  to  herself;  "yes, 
know  and  realize  it  as  fully  as  I  can  make  them. 
Then,  if  after  that  they  have  the  heart  to  love  me,  I 
shall  know  that  God  can  love  me,  too." 

Through  the  fabric  of  Joy's  courage,  both  moral  and 
physical,  there  had  run  always  an  odd  little  feminine 
thread  of  shrinking.  She  was  afraid  of  small,  creep 
ing  things.  An  inch-worm  on  her  gown  would  set  her 
shuddering,  when  a  panther's  cry  from  the  cane-brake 
could  not  stir  the  color  in  her  cheek,  nor  bring  her 
heart's  beat  a  second  faster.  Now,  with  a  sudden  in 
take  of  breath,  she  noted,  glancing  down  at  the  path, 
a  brown  caterpillar  making  his  slow  and  devious  way 
across  just  where  she  would  have  set  her  foot. 

She  stopped  short,  and  stood  looking  down  thought 
fully  at  the  furry  atom.  "Art  thou,  too,  adrift  in  a 
world  too  big  for  thee,  little  brother  ?"  she  asked  softly, 
and  knelt  to  examine  the  worm  more  closely.  The 
hairs  upon  it  were  golden  at  their  roots,  changing  at 
the  tips  to  jet.  "How  beautiful  it  is !"  she  whispered. 
"Why,  I  never  dreamed  one  of  the  things  could  be 
beautiful !" 

Across  her  mind  came  the  text,  "Perfect  love  cast- 
eth  out  fear."  "I  shall  never  be  afraid  of  them  again." 
And  then,  noticing  the  little  creature  questing  and 
changing  his  path,  she  said,  "Who  knows  what  long 
ings  for  love  animate  this  tiny  frame?"  and  reached 
down  a  tentative  forefinger  to  stroke  the  worm  gently. 

"God  bless  you,"  she  said.  "God  send  you  may  find 
that  for  which  you  seek ;"  then  Joy  arose,  and  her  heart 
was  lightened,  for  she  had  received  as  well  as  bestowed 
a  blessing. 

Arrived  at  the  cabin,  she  found  that  her  new  waiting- 


MISTRESS  JOY  325 

woman  had  made  some  very  considerable  alteration  in 
its  appearance.  Following  the  plans  to  which  she  had 
been  trained,  the  negress  had  attempted  to  beautify  its 
plain  interior  as  much  as  possible,  and  Lalla,  whose 
flowers,  much  to  her  joy,  had  not  been  rejected,  was 
now  bunching  them  into  bouquets,  preparatory  to  filling 
the  few  cups  and  bowls  which  she  had  been  able  to 
gather  together  for  the  purpose. 

"Now,  Zette,"  called  Joy,  in  high,  cheerful  tones, 
"let  us  bring  out  the  best  we  have,  and  put  the  house 
en  fete" 

The  woman  was  nothing  loath.  She  assisted  in 
opening  the  great  chests  and  packing-cases,  which  had 
come  with  them  the  day  before,  and  which  had  mostly 
been  stowed  in  a  little  shed  adjoining  the  cabin.  Out 
of  these  they  drew  stores  of  bright-colored  draperies, 
rugs,  and  fine  linen  spreads  rich  with  needlework  and 
lace.  All  the  silver  in  Joy's  dower-chest  was  brought 
out. 

The  plain  old  deal  table  upon  which  she  had  made 
her  bread  for  years  was  carried  in  from  the  kitchen, 
and,  trimmed  with  scarfs,  set  forth  with  silver,  was 
converted  into  a  buffet. 

When  they  had  done,  the  room  was  indeed  trans 
formed.  There  were  some  glaring  incongruities,  but 
yet  the  changes  they  had  made  would  serve  to  typify 
to  her  friends,  as  Joy  intended  they  should,  the  change 
in  herself. 

While  they  were  yet  working,  steps  sounded  with 
out,  and  David  Batchelor's  tall  form  stood  in  the 
doorway.  He  looked  about  him  with  approval,  then 
came  straight  to  where  Joy  stood;  taking  both  her 
hands,  he  said,  "That  's  my  brave  girl.  I  knew  that 
you  would  meet  it  even  as  it  should  be  met." 

"I  longed  for  you,  at  first,"  Joy  answered,  "to  prop 
my  failing  courage,  supposing  it  should  fail;  but, 


326  MISTRESS  JOY 

David,  I  find  my  spirit  mounts  as  I  go  on  in  this.  I 
know  I  must  be  right.  'T  would  not  be  so  if  I  were 
wrong." 

"Yes,"  returned  David,  with  much  content;  "do 
you  so  ?  Then  all  is  well  with  you.  Not  my  approval, 
nor  that  of  another,  is  needed." 

"Can  you  be  here?"  she  asked,  a  little  wistfully,  as 
David  prepared  to  go,  after  telling  her  that  her  class 
and  as  many  more  of  the  Society  as  she  should  bid  him 
notify  would  meet  with  her  on  the  following  afternoon. 

"That  may  not  be,  dear  heart,"  he  answered  her.  "I 
belong  to  no  class.  My  spirit  will  be  with  thee,  not 
anxiously,  for  I  know  that  all  you  do  will  be  well 
done,  but  full  of  pride  in  you." 

Next  morning,  and  till  long  after  noon,  the  opening 
of  the  heavy  boxes,  the  sorting  and  placing  of  the 
beautiful  articles  which  they  contained,  many  of  which 
Joy  now  saw  for  the  first  time,  kept  both  women  oc 
cupied. 

Since  Joy  could  remember,  time  had  been  told  in 
Father  Tobias's  cabin  by  a  noon-mark  upon  the  kitchen 
floor.  Now  she  wound,  afterward  setting  it  by  this 
same  noon-mark,  a  great  ormolu  clock  of  rococo  de 
sign,  and  placed  it  upon  the  mantel-board.  When  its 
gilded  hands  pointed  the  quarter  before  two,  she  went 
to  make  certain  alterations  in  her  dress. 

She  decided  not  to  put  on,  as  she  had  at  first  thought 
of  doing,  a  ball  gown.  That  would  be  foolish,  would 
look  defiant,  and  belie  her.  She  would  wear  just  such 
a  frock  as  she  had  been  wont  to  wear  for  afternoons 
there  in  her  uncle's  house — just  such  a  frock  as  she 
considered  a  gentlewoman  ought  to  wear  who  was 
young  and  fair,  and  who  cared  enough  for  beauty  to 
desire  to  set  off  properly  so  much  as  God  had  given 
her. 

One  of  the  gifts  which  came  in  her  well-filled  coffers 


MISTRESS  JOY  327 

was  a  Venetian  mirror.  This  was  hung  above  the 
small,  rude  toilet-table  in  her  little  attic  room.  And 
when  Mistress  Joy  had  finished  dressing  before  it,  she 
turned  and  went  down  the  steep  stair  to  the  room 
below. 

Her  foot  had  not  reached  the  last  step  when  the 
clock  chimed  out  the  hour  of  two  in  clear,  thin  tones, 
and  after  it  the  little  music-box  which  was  connected 
with  the  mechanism  set  off  upon  a  merry  dance-tune. 

At  the  same  instant  Sister  Longanecker,  with  the 
inevitable  Patience  close  following,  reached  the  door. 
Up  went  both  hands;  her  mouth  was  open,  but  words 
failed  her.  'T  was  perhaps  because  she  was  deprived, 
on  this  occasion,  of  the  opportunity  to  tell  what  Pa 
tience  said  to  her;  for  Patience,  hanging  back,  merely 
glared  with  those  light-blue,  protruding  eyes  of  hers, 
and,  like  her  mother,  was  quite  dumb. 

"Come  in,"  called  Joy.  "I  am  right  glad  to  see 
you."  She  went  forward,  took  a  hand  of  each,  and 
drew  them,  in  an  almost  cataleptic  state,  into  the  room. 

They  stared  about  it,  and  then  at  Joy's  unusual 
attire.  Finally  Sister  Loving,  whose  usual  small,  pip 
ing  tones  were  quite  inadequate  to  the  occasion  brought 
out  in  thundering  bass,  "What  does — Pastor  Tobias — 
say  to  all  this  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  Have  ye  turned 
Papist,  Joyce  Valentine,  and  set  up  an  altar  here  in 
your  father's  house?" 

It  was  the  buffet  which  had  called  forth  this  last. 
Joyce  answered  all  these  queries  in  one,  as  she  replied : 
"I  have  called  you  here,  dear  Sister  Loving,  along  with 
the  others,  that  I  may  tell  you  exactly  what  it  all  doth 
mean." 

As  they  spoke,  other  members  of  the  Society  pre 
sented  themselves,  were  welcomed  by  Joyce,  and  took 
their  places  silently  upon  the  seats  prepared  for  them. 

The  men,  after  their  first  look  at  the  untoward  deco- 


328  MISTRESS  JOY 

ration  of  the  room,  kept  their  eyes  down-dropped,  as 
though  they  feared  contamination  from  the  sight.  But 
the  women,  more  curious  or  more  attracted  by  their 
unusual  surroundings,  kept  stealing  glances  now  and 
then,  though  evidently  half  ashamed  to  do  so. 

The  next  batch  of  arrivals  brought  Brother  Am 
brose  Gibson,  leader  of  Joy's  class.  He  paid  slight 
heed  to  the  reception  which  had  been  prepared  for 
them,  but  took  her  aside  for  speech. 

"This  is  a  most  unusual  proceeding,  Sister  Joyce," 
he  said.  "I  know  not  but  that  I  do  ill  to  accede  to 
your  request.  Why  do  we  not  wait  till  your  father, 
our  beloved  pastor,  is  at  home?  I  earnestly  conjure 
you  to  do  so." 

Joy  shook  her  head.  "  'T  was  to  spare  him  all  I 
might,"  she  answered,  "that  I  chose  this  day  of  his 
absence.  Are  we  not  all  brothers  and  sisters  here? 
Is  there  aught  but  loving-kindness  in  any  of  your 
hearts  toward  me?  Why  should  I  need  my  father's 
protection  against  you?" 

Silenced,  but  not  convinced,  the  good  old  man  went 
back  into  the  room  and  took  his  station  with  the  others. 
The  class  was  now  almost  fully  assembled,  and  Joy 
arose  before  them,  prepared  to  speak.  As  she  did  so, 
the  clock  reached  the  half  hour. 

Again,  following  the  stroke,  came  a  little,  chiming, 
lilting  bit  of  dance  music.  She  paused  uncertainly. 
Most  of  the  women  listened  with  ill-concealed  delight, 
but  Brother  Hamtramck's  rasping  voice  inquired,  "Can 
you  not  silence  that  ungodly  instrument,  Sister  Joyce?" 

Outside  the  window  a  mocking-bird  on  a  blossom 
ing  spray,  atilt  in  the  wind,  was  pouring  out  his  soul 
in  a  mad  ecstasy  of  music. 

As  the  last  note  of  the  clock  chime  ceased,  and  left  the 
bird-song  more  insistently  audible,  Joy  lifted  a  warn 
ing  finger.  "Shall  we  not  silence  both,  brother?"  she 


MISTRESS  JOY  329 

asked  gently.  "God  hath,  it  seems,  choristers  who  do 
not  sing  hymns  only." 

There  being  no  reply,  she  went  on :  "I  have  called 
you  here,  my  friends,  because  there  are  matters  which 
must  be  settled  betwixt  us.  I  feel  myself  an  offend 
ing  member  of  our  Society,  and  I  desire  to  be  ques 
tioned  and  disciplined." 

"As  I  have  been  telling  our  sister,  this  is  not 
seemly,"  interrupted  Ambrose  Gibson.  "The  govern 
ment  of  our  Society  provides  that  an  offending  mem 
ber  be  first  dealt  with  by  the  pastor,  or  by  some  elder 
or  class  leader,  and  that  privately.  We  have  no  wish 
to  be  unduly  harsh.  If  our  sister  here,  being  thus 
dealt  with  in  private,  promise  amendment,  saying  she 
hath  been  in  fault,  that  is  all  the  letter  of  our  law  de 
mands  ;  then  the  fault  is  washed  away ;  it  is  as  though 
it  had  not  been.  Even  if  for  a  time  she  refuse  such 
acknowledgment  and  atonement,  but  yet  press  not  this 
open  disagreement  upon  us,  surely  our  loving-kindness 
is  sufficient  to  pardon  the  error."  He  looked  entreat- 
ingly  about  him.  This  most  zealous  young  member 
of  his  class  was  very  dear  to  the  old  man's  soul. 

"I  pray  you,"  returned  Joy,  more  firmly  than  be 
fore,  "do  not  use  undue  gentleness  toward  me.  Re 
member  I  am  that  one  who  felt  called  upon — who  be 
lieved  she  had  a  genuine  call — to  preach  the  Word. 
Surely,  if  I  be  in  error,  my  fault  is  greater  than 
the  fault  of  another.  I  earnestly  desire  to  be  ques 
tioned." 

And  though  the  class  leader  still  deprecated  the  too 
public  occasion  which  made  it  appear  that  they  were 
using  excessive  severity  toward  a  sister  whom  they  all 
loved,  he  finally,  and  with  manifest  reluctance,  put  the 
question,  "Have  you  worn  ribbons  or  other  gauds  un- 
suited  to  a  member  of  the  Society?" 

For  answer,  Joy  pointed  to  the  gown  she  wore,  a 


330  MISTRESS   JOY 

flowered  muslin,  bound  and  looped  with  ribbons  of 
tabbied  silk. 

"But  you  do  repent  of  that?"  urged  the  old  man, 
eagerly.  "You  will  put  off  such  unseemly  wear?" 

"Yea,"  answered  Joy,  smiling,  "when  the  trees  in 
springtime  put  off  their  joyous  beauty  of  green  leaves 
and  wear  instead  repentant  gray;  when  the  flowers 
are  all  dyed  in  somber  hues,  and  the  noonday  sky  is 
black  instead  of  blue — then,  brother,  I  shall  see  in  it 
God's  command  that  I  go  sadly  all  my  days,  then  shall 
I  know  that  beautiful  apparel  is  a  snare." 

From  this  drowning  rush  of  heretical  eloquence  the 
elder  sought  refuge  in  the  mere  form  of  the  discipline ; 
and,  "Have  you  indulged  in  worldly  pleasures  to  the 
injury  of  your  soul?"  his  hesitant  voice  went  on, 
through  cadences  of  helpless  wonder  and  mild  per 
suasion. 

"In  worldly  pleasures? — yes,"  answered  Joy.  "Such 
things  as  I  have  been  wont  most  to  condemn,  those 
have  I  done.  I  have  danced." 

There  was  a  perceptible  stir  among  her  hearers ;  Sis 
ter  Loving  moaned  aloud. 

"Aye,"  went  on  Joy,  "I  learned  to  dance,  most  pain 
fully.  To  theaters  have  I  been,  and  to  races.  Such 
music  as  you  heard  but  now,  and  found  so  unpleas- 
ing,  is  only  a  little  echo  of  those  sounds  to  which  I 
have  been  listening  entranced.  But,  for  the  further 
part  of  your  questioning,  whether  I  did  these  things 
to  the  hurt  of  mine  own  soul,  I  doubt  it.  For  all  of 
them,  I  were,  perchance,  no  whit  the  worse.  The  fault 
I  would  confess  to  you,  though  you  do  not  question  me 
of  it,  is  that,  for  a  time,  I  put  these  worldly  pleasures 
and  successes  above  the  welfare  of  my  spirit;  I  forgot 
to  read  the  Word,  I  left  off  praying.  I  found  not  in 
his  commandments  my  delight ;  and  when  trouble  came 
upon  me,  and  shame  and  humiliation  of  spirit,  they 


MISTRESS  JOY  331 

found  me  afar  from  the  shelter  of  God's  love.  All 
these  things  I  did  and  suffered;  and,  having  proved 
them  bitter  in  the  end,  I  humbly  repented  of  them.  I 
could  not  fall  into  that  snare  again. 

"But  ye  must  know  the  new  Joyce  Valentine  who 
hath  come  home  to  you.  There  is  an  inward  and  spir 
itual  man,  who  more  doth  signify  than  this  outward 
and  visible.  And  this  Joyce,  whose  outward  show 
calls  for  your  censure,  she  hath,  beneath  the  ribbon  of 
disobedience,  a  larger  heart  to  love  her  kind  withal. 
'T  is  now — like  our  Savior's  own — acquainted  with 
grief.  And  since,  even  like  his,  it  knows  the  sorrows 
and  pains  and  weaknesses  of  this  our  human  frame,  it 
can  never  again  shut  its  doors  to  arty  brother's  need. 
Nor  can  it  ever  come  back  to  be  so  narrow  that  it  can 
hold  but  our  Society.  I  have  e'en  been  inside  a  Catho 
lic  church.  Oh,  yes,"  in  answer  to  a  sort  of  groan 
which  went  up  from  her  hearers,  "I  went  there  with 
those  whom  I  loved.  They  are  Catholics.  They  went 
to  the  confessional.  And  in  mine  own  dark  hour,  when 
I  had  done  so  ill  that  God's  face  was  hid  from  me,  I, 
too,  wrent  there." 

"Went  to  confessional?"  thundered  one  of  the  old 
men. 

"Yea,"  replied  Joyce,  "even  to  confessional.  I  did 
confess  me  to  their  priest.  And  he,  Brother  Ambrose, 
gave  me  as  good  advice  as  you  or  any  mortal  man 
could  give.  All  his  words  seemed  to  bring  God  nearer 
to  me."  She  paused  a  moment.  "And  in  the  end  he 
blessed  me." 

"A  Popish  practice,"  muttered  Brother  Dunn. 

There  fell  a  long  silence.  The  men  had  plucked  up 
spirit  to  look  about  them.  Keziah  Hamtramck  nudged 
her  liege  lord,  and  whispered,  "Heritage,  I  would  have 
you  to  look  at  the  silver  there  on  that  table.  'T  is 
enough  to  buy  a  farm — two  farms,  methinks.  And," 


332  MISTRESS  JOY 

she  concluded  triumphantly,  "it  comes  not  within  the 
discipline!" 

"My  dear  young  sister,"  said  the  old  class  leader 
at  last,  "what  would  you  have  us  do  with  you?  This 
is  a  most  strange  and  unnatural  proceeding.  Do  you 
desire  to  be  quit  of  us?  Is  that  the  thing  which  you 
would  ask?" 

The  tears  were  in  his  eyes.  Tears  in  Joy's  eyes  an 
swered  them.  "Nay — oh,  not  so,"  she  replied.  "Ye 
are  my  people,  and  surely  your  God  is  my  God.  But 
I  have  gathered  you  together  here  that  you  may  know 
there  are  things  in  our  discipline  to  which  hereafter  I 
cannot  conform.  If  these  things  cause  you  to  cast  me 
out,  why  then,  in  all  good  will,  let  me  go  forth  from 
among  you." 

"You  are  young,"  returned  the  old  man.  "The 
young  are  still  hot-headed.  You  will  change  your 
mind.  What  are  these  things  which  you  love  better 
than  your  father's  faith?" 

"Stay,"  spoke  Joy,  quickly,  and,  though  her  voice 
was  kind,  it  rang  with  undiminished  courage,  "all  is 
well  between  my  father  and  me.  All  is  well  now  be 
tween  God  and  me.  'T  is  only  between  my  class  and 
myself,  between  the  Society  and  myself,  that  there  must 
be  no  shadow.  I  shall  live  here  among  you,  I  doubt 
not,  till  I  am  an  old  woman.  I  shall  be  one  of  you, 
if  I  may.  But  I  shall  never  more  hold  that  beauty 
and  mirth  and  music — yea,  and  dancing,  too,  and  all 
those  things  which  go  to  make  up  the  innocent  pleasures 
of  life — are  sinful." 

"Do — do  you  intend  to  dance?"  inquired  an  awed 
feminine  voice  from  a  back  seat — "you,  a  pastor's 
daughter !" 

"I  do  not,"  replied  Joy.  Her  sweet  face  looked  pale, 
and  for  the  first  time  her  eyes  were  full  of  trouble. 
"There  are  some  thoughts  it  would  bring  up  which 
are  too  painful  to  me.  I  shall  not  dance  again." 


MISTRESS  JOY  333 

And  now  there  fell  upon  the  group  a  long,  distressed 
silence.  Finally  a  gaunt  old  matron,  a  true  frontiers- 
woman  both  on  the  material  and  the  spiritual  fron 
tier,  rose  up  and  said;  "Why  not  let  this  lie  awhile? 
Why  decide  it  till  our  pastor  hath  returned?" 

"Oh,  I  pray  you,"  began  Joy,  hurriedly,  "I  beg  of 
you — I  cannot  bear  it !  Do  not  put  this  thing  upon  my 
father.  Let  it  be  finished  here  and  now." 

But  the  other  answered  shrewdly — she  was  old 
enough  to  know  the  mellowing  power  of  time  in  human 
destinies — "Why  should  we  not  continue  Sister  Joyce 
a  member  of  us  for  six  months — upon  probation,  as  it 
were?  If  at  the  end  of  six  months  she  sees  reason 
for  to  change  her  mind,  and  to  come  back  to  our  way  of 
thinking,  I  know  that  we  shall  all  be  right  glad.  And 
if  she  do  not  so,  why,  we  shall  be  no  worse  off.  Her 
ticket  can  be  taken  from  her,  though  we  would  all 
beg  that  if  she  offend  not  in  her  practices  more  than 
she  promiseth  to-day,  she  still  hold  us  in  such  kind 
good-fellowship  as  might  lead  her  to  attend  our  meet 
ings,  even  as  David  Batchelor  and  several  more  who 
never  yet  have  joined  with  us  are  doing." 

"  'T  would  put  her  outside  her  class,"  sighed  the 
class  leader. 

"Yes,  but  six  months,"  counseled  the  matron  in  a 
lower  tone — "a  maid  may  well  change  her  mind  in 
six  months.  I  have  known  them  that  could  change 
in  six  minutes."  And  thus,  after  further  discussion 
and  earnest  prayer,  it  was  agreed. 

Brother  Gibson  went  forth  first  and  alone.  Then 
Heritage  Hamtramck  voyaged  as  far  as  the  doorway, 
where  he  stopped  and  looked  back,  calling  for  his 
spouse. 

"Nay,  go  your  way!"  she  cried  pettishly.  "I  will 
o'ertake  you.  I  have  somewhat  to  say  to  Sister 
Joyce." 

When  she  had  watched  him  half  way  to  the  gate, 


334  MISTRESS   JOY 

she  turned  back  and  whispered,  "Sister  Joyce,  pray 
show  me  your  frocks.  I  have  seen  naught  like  that 
gown  you  wear.  It  must  be  a  new  mode;  and  though 
I  care  not  for  new  modes,  yet  it  monstrously  becomes 
you,  and  I  fain  would  see  if  you  have  others  finer." 

Sister  Loving  and  Patience,  on  an  open  tour  of  the 
room,  were  systematically  inspecting  everything. 

"I  wonder,  now,  if  you  could  show  me  this  stitch 
here,"  cried  Sister  Charity  Krumpecker.  She  drew 
Joyce  toward  the  buffet,  and  pointed  to  a  particular 
line  in  its  embroidered  cover.  "Good  lack,  man !"  she 
snapped,  as  her  husband  suggested  that  they  must  be 
going,  "can  I  not  stay  one  moment  to  learn  a  new 
sort  of  work  to  set  my  hand  to?" 

In  short,  the  women  were  all  women  as  well  as 
Methodies.  When  the  men  were  at  last  gotten  rid  of, 
Joy  was  obliged  to  bring  out,  or  to  have  Zette  bring 
out  and  display,  every  gift  she  had  received  in  her 
uncle's  house. 

The  ruined  ball  gown  only,  a  memento  too  significant 
for  any  eyes  but  her  own,  lay  undisturbed  in  its  box 
up  in  the  little  attic  room. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

[HAT  scene  at  Joy's  home,  in  which 
she  had  boldly  taken  her  stand,  ear 
nestly  desiring  not  to  be  fellowshiped 
if  aught  in  her  conduct  was  displeas 
ing  to  the  Society,  did  not  produce 
the  result  she  expected.  There  was 
no  disposition  in  the  members  to  draw 
away  from  her — this  would  have  seemed  to  Joy  per 
fectly  natural ;  their  inclination  was,  rather,  to  hold  her 
in  closer  fellowship  with  themselves. 

It  was  touching  to  her  to  observe  an  effort  among 
the  sisters  to  offer  her  small,  kindly  attentions.  No 
quilting  was  thought  of  unless  she  was  bidden.  The 
apple-cuttings  were  not  complete  without  her.  And 
late  one  afternoon  Tohopeka  brought  a  request  from 
Sister  Loving  Longanecker  that  Joy  come  over  the 
next  day,  as  they  intended  to  pluck  geese. 

In  these  days  Joy  had  rather  unwholesomely  ample 
leisure.  Zette  was  an  accomplished  cook  as  well  as 
waiting-woman,  and  poor  Lalla,  who  could  never  learn 
anything  through  harshness,  was  being  taught  by  her 
love  for  her  new  mistress  to  become  an  acceptable  little 
servitor. 

About  three  o'clock,  Joy,  with  the  little  faithful 
shadow  in  attendance,  took  her  way  over  to  Mistress 
Longanecker's.  She  was  met  at  the  door  by  Patience, 
who  told  her  that  "mommy"  was  busy  catching  the 
geese.  After  Joyce  had  laid  off  her  hat  and  been 

335 


3;5  MISTRESS   TOY 

offered  the  refreshment  of  the  period  and  section,  she 
was  taken  through  the  house  to  a  great,  bare,  unfin 
ished  room  at  the  back,  where  the  geese  were  to  be 
plucked.  There  she  found  Sister  Loving,  and — she 
longed  to  have  some  one  to  say  it  to — "about  twenty 

Sister  Longanecker.  "a  sight  to  shake  the  midriff 
of  despair  with  laughter,"  came  forward  and  greeted 
Joy  warmly. 

"If  yon  don't  pot  them  on."  she  explained,  "the 
:.:::.::  r  :-:.:  •---  _  :-  :.  in:  y:ur  clothes  And 
so  I  say.  fix  yourself  op  right  in  the  beginnin*.  Pa 
tience  says  to  me,  says  she,  says  Patience,  "Mommy, 
you're  enough  to  make  a  boss  shy."  But  I  says.  'Well. 
I  won't  scare  the  geese,  I  reckon — so  where  "s  the  dif 
ference  " 

The  articles  deprecated  by  the  prudent  Patience  as 
;:. ' :  /  :.:-'.  ::  ilimr  hrrses  :  m  -  -:  :'  -.„-...  :. 

donned  by  Mistress  Longanecker  whenever  called  upon 
:  if  hirh  criestess  ::  the  sriemn  r::e  ::  e 


Sister  Lcvingr's  large  feet  were  thrust  through  the 

O  — 

tne    sjcirts   ot 


ird.     A  string  run  through 
le  fuilness  about  her  waist. 


:"  hers  were  wrapped 

:   '.'.- 

'---  .  r:::"j    r  ::::-.:     ::r  :7\:':7-;       Htr  :     r.  -'77    7-      ere 
in  ::i  ?r.ur".v  =:  the  v.-ri=t=:  her  he^i 

was  enveloped  in  a  great  turban,  somewhat  like  those 
:m    :y   r.c^rerrr:     :.::   ~.re   :7\:5::~7       A.t:ret.ter 
t      i-   :. ::.-.  --  h~-"e  ::  fun  ~s  :?  n:t  :::en  5een  rut- 
is  i   : .:u: — r:r    iniee-i.  frezuentiv  m=tcher!  in  rne. 


MISTRESS  JOY  337 

After  greeting  Joy,  she  once  more  tallied  over  her 
geese,  the  objects  of  her  immediate  onslaught.  It  ap 
peared  that  there  was  one,  or  possibly  there  were  two, 
missing. 

"Patience !"  she  shrieked,  "the  big  gander  ain't  here, 
and  I  miss  out  the  oldest  gray  goose.  Bring  'em  in 
before  we  start." 

She  capered  up  and  down  the  room,  following  the 
hissing,  shrieking  geese,  and  attempted  once  more  to 
count  them.  "Xo,  he  ain't  here,"  she  shouted,  just  as 
two  or  three  squawking  fowls  ran  between  her  feet 
and  tripped  her  up. 

More  calls  for  Patience  followed,  and  finally  Sister 
Loving,  who  appeared  to  lack  not  only  the  young 
woman  of  that  cognomen,  but  the  quality  for  which 
she  was  named,  decided  that  she  would  herself  sally 
forth  and  capture  the  omitted  geese. 

"Oh,  no,"  remonstrated  Joy,  quaking  with  inward 
laughter :  "please  do  not  you  go ;  Patience  will  be  here 
an^n.  or  I  will  get  them  for  you." 

"Xay."  retorted  Sister  Loving:  "a  body's  business 
is  never  so  well  attended  to  as  when  he  "tends  to  it 
himself.  I  am  a-goin'  out  and  git  them  geese!"' 

She  started  with  such  celerity  as  the  hampering 
sleeves  of  the  nightrail,  which  permitted  a  step  only 
about  a  foot  long  and  gave  a  singular,  mincing,  am 
bling  turn  to  her  gait,  would  allow.  Joy,  convulsed 
with  laughter,  and  Lalla,  solemn  and  observant,  fol 
lowed  her. 

And  then  was  Patience's  wisdom  proven,  for  David 
Batchelor  came  riding  up  to  the  gate,  with  little  Rea 
son  before  him  on  the  pommel,  and  his  big.  gray  horse 
shied  wildly  at  sight  of  Sister  Longanecker.  who  was 
dancing  down  the  yard  like  a  gigantic  rag  doll  gone 
violently  mad,  quite  oblivious  to  the  figure  she  cut,  and 
intent  only  upon  securing  her  prey. 


338  MISTRESS  JOY 

Joy's  face  was  flushed  with  much  suppressed  mirth 
as  she  raised  it  to  David's.  "I  want  to  leave  the  boy 
here  with  you,"  he  said,  "an  't  please  you,  Mistress 
Joy.  Sister  Loving  hath  promised  he  should  see  the 
geese  plucked.  The  post  is  in,  and  I  am  going  to  the 
settlement  to  bring  back  letters." 

The  story  of  poor  Princess  Lai  and  her  downfall 
had  not  failed  to  touch  David's  generous  heart.  He 
expressed  a  belief  upon  hearing  it  that  her  father,  or 
at  least  some  of  her  friends  or  kindred,  might  have 
found  refuge  in  Jamaica,  and,  having  friends  there,  he 
decided  he  would  write  to  make  inquiries.  David  re 
minded  Joy  of  these  letters  of  his  which  had  been  writ 
ten  aboard  the  keel-boat  but  one  day's  travel  out  of 
New  Orleans,  and  sent  back  by  the  rowers  of  a  skiff. 
All  had  not  gone  to  Jamaica.  Some  were  addressed 
to  friends  in  Florida.  "And  so,"  he  said,  "methinks 
't  is  possible  that  I  shall  have  news  for  little  Shadow 
there  when  I  return." 

He  handed  down  the  laughing  boy,  who  straight 
way  ran  cheering  after  Sister  Longanecker,  evidently 
considering  her  quite  the  most  fascinating  thing  with 
which  it  had  as  yet  been  his  good  fortune  to  meet. 

David  laughed  out  suddenly  and  cantered  off,  as  a 
great  squalling  broke  forth  just  back  of  Joy.  She 
turned  to  behold  Sister  Longanecker  galloping  buoy 
antly  up,  a  goose  under  each  arm,  while  little  Reason, 
who  had  caught  the  flying  ends  of  her  waist  scarf  be 
hind,  "playing  horse,"  must  needs  make  his  brief  but 
enthusiastic  legs  fly  if  he  would  keep  up. 

"Shall  I  get  a  nightrail  for  you,  Joy?"  Sister  Lov 
ing  panted.  "  'T  would  never  do  to  spoil  that  pretty 
frock  with  feathers." 

"Nay,  that  you  shall  not,"  answered  Joy.  "I  will 
tie  up  my  hair  and  watch  you  pluck  awhile,  but  for  my 
self — the  geese  may  keep  their  feathers,  for  all  of  me." 


"SISTER    I.ONGANECKER    GALLOPING    BUOYANTLY    UP, 
A    GOOSE    UNDER    EACH    ARM." 


MISTRESS  JOY  339 

"Just  like  Patience,"  grumbled  Sister  Longanecker. 
"  'T  is  so  you  foolish,  sentimental  maids  all  talk — 
afraid  of  giving  pain.  I  pity  any  man  who  must  de 
pend  on  one  of  you  to  care  for  him." 

"Yet  my  father  hath  not  so  far  complained,"  mur 
mured  Joyce,  demurely. 

"Well,  then,  't  is  because  he  is  too  near  a  saint  to 
do  so,"  retorted  Sister  Longanecker.  "I  vow  he  needs 
a  woman's  care,  and  doth  not  get  it." 

They  were  inside  the  room  now.  Sister  Longa 
necker  had  taken  a  resentful  goose  in  hand,  and,  with 
two  fingers  round  its  neck  so  that  she  might  shut  off  at 
one  and  the  same  time  its  breath  and  its  protesting 
shrieks,  was  proceeding  to  denude  it  of  its  feathers. 
Joy's  head  had  been  covered  with  a  kerchief;  little 
Reason,  all  pinned  up  in  towels,  bibs,  and  pinafores, 
was  enjoying  himself  hugely. 

"Watch  de  snow,  Doyce.  See  de  pitty  snow!"  he 
cried  as  each  handful  of  feathers  flew  abroad. 

"But  truly,  Sister  Joyce,"  resumed  Mistress  Longa 
necker,  insinuatingly,  "to  return  now  to  that  of  which 
we  were  speaking.  You  will  be  wedding  one  of  these 
clays — what  then  will  your  poor  father  do?" 

"Why,  Mistress  Longanecker,"  retorted  Joy,  laugh 
ing,  "by  your  own  telling  of  the  story  I  am  naught, 
and  not  fit  to  care  for  my  father — how,  then,  should  he 
miss  me?" 

"Nay,  I  meant  not  quite  that;  but  think  ye  not  he 
needs  some  one  more  lovinger,  some  older  wroman, 
now,  of  a  more  serious  mind  to  understand  him,  like — 
you  know?" 

Joy  opened  her  clear  eyes  very  wide  indeed,  with  a 
pretense  of  surprise.  Poor  Sister  Loving — loving 
though  she  was  in  fact  as  well  as  in  name — dared  not 
pay  quite  open  court  to  Father  Tobias.  But  these 
times  of  hints  and  messages  and  suggestions  as  to  her 


340  MISTRESS  JOY 

father's  loneliness  were  something  which  Joy  remem 
bered  as  far  back  as  she  could  remember  Sister  Loving 
at  all. 

"Why,  Sister  Longanecker,"  she  answered,  "I  think 
father  doth  very  well  without  me.  When  I  was 
away  so  long  in  New  Orleans  he  seemed  quite  con 
tent." 

"Nay,  Mistress  Joyce,  that  did  he  not.  I  saw  it  with 
my  own  eyes — he  pined.  Patience  says  to  me  the  first 
week  you  were  gone,  'Mommy,'  she  says,  'our  dear 
pastor  is  a-pinin'.  What  is  there  that  we  can  take 
him?'  And  I  do  think,  Joyce,"  she  continued,  rather 
severely,  "that  I  was  over  at  your  house  every  blessed 
day  while  you  was  gone,  except  them  days  your  father 
was  away  on  circuit." 

"I  knew  that  he  had  kind  and  loving  friends  here," 
answered  Joyce;  "those  who  would  care  for  him,  else 
had  I  scarce  dared  be  away  so  long." 

"Aw,  the  poor,  dear  man,"  returned  Sister  Longa 
necker,  who  was  still  vigorously  at  the  goose,  "and 
him  that  absent-minded  he  scarce  knew  whether  he 
was  eatin'  pone-bread  or  the  best  pound-cake  I  could 
make  for  him — always  so  soft  and  tender,  too — let  go, 
ye  villain !" 

In  the  stress  of  her  sentimental  reminiscences,  Sister 
Loving  had  relaxed  her  hold  upon  the  gander's  throat, 
and  it  had  seized  the  opportunity — even  a  goose,  it 
seems,  will  know  an  opportunity  when  one  is  put 
squarely  before  it — to  catch  the  sister's  thumb  in  its 
strong  beak  and  pinch  it  well. 

The  geese  were  plucked,  one  after  another,  with 
much  squalling  and  chasing  and  fluttering  of  feathers. 
They  nipped  Sister  Longanecker  when,  sentiment  get 
ting  the  better  of  her  vigilance,  she  slackened  her  grip 
on  their  necks.  They  eluded  her  and  sailed  the  whole 
length  of  the  room,  fulminating  wild  squawks  and 


MISTRESS  JOY  341 

throwing  up  clouds  of  feathers,  which  made  the  small 
man  shout  with  glee. 

In  the  midst  of  all  the  uproar,  when  the  fun  was  at 
the  maddest,  came  David  knocking  at  the  door  and 
asking  for  the  child  and  Joy. 

Patience  would  have  denied  him  entrance.  But 
little  Reason,  pulling  the  door  out  of  her  hand,  shouted 
gaily  to  David  to  come  in  and  see  the  pretty  snow. 

The  last  goose  was  at  the  moment  in  process  of 
plucking.  All  the  plucked  fowls  were  huddled,  angry 
and  ashamed,  down  in  one  corner. 

"Look,  Dadie !"  cried  the  child,  "dey  dot  no  kose  on, 
an'  her  say" — pointing  to  Mistress  Longanecker  with 
a  small,  accusing  finger — "  'at  her  won't  put  no 
nighties  on  'em.  Is  n't  her  wicked  ?  Poor  geeses !" 

In  her  embarrassment,  Mistress  Longanecker  let  go 
the  goose  upon  which  she  was  then  operating.  The  re 
leased  fowl,  Mistress  Loving  after  it,  fled  shrieking 
toward  the  door,  and  therefore  toward  the  party  of 
spectators. 

"Minerva  and  her  bird,"  gasped  David,  his  eyes 
dancing  with  laughter,  as  he  drew  Joyce  outside. 

They  heard  the  goose  caught,  and  the  noise  begin 
again.  David  had  called  her  out  to  tell  her  that  he 
had  news  that  certain  of  Lalla's  kindred  were  in  Ja 
maica,  and  he  hoped,  after  a  few  months,  the  child 
might  go  to  them  there. 

"I  think  't  will  be  safe  now,"  he  said,  "to  send  for 
the  negress  who  came  with  her.  My  understanding 
is  that  both  are  free;  or  if  the  woman  belongs  to  any 
one,  it  must  have  been  to  little  Shadow's  father." 

He  left,  promising  to  write  to  the  sisters  the  request 
that  Zoombi  be  allowed  to  join  the  Princess  Lai  if  the 
child  should  go  through  New  Orleans  on  her  way  home. 
If  it  was  thought  well  to  send  Zoombi  up  to  Natchez, 
he  would,  he  said,  proffer  money  for  her  journey.  Tak- 


342  MISTRESS  JOY 

ing  Reason  up  before  him,  he  rode  away  toward  "The 
Meadows,"  carrying  with  him  also  the  squawking  of 
the  denuded  geese  and  the  rasping  sound  of  Sister  Lov- 
ing's  adjurations. 

Mistress  Wilful  Guion  stood  in  her  kitchen  garden 
gathering  herbs  for  drying.  At  this  time  and  place 
the  herbs  and  simples  of  the  garden  played  an  impor 
tant  part  in  household  supplies.  There  were  lavender 
and  marjoram  for  sweetness,  with  basil  and  rosemary 
beside;  thyme  and  bay  and  chervil  for  seasoning;  and 
boneset,  camomile,  and  poppies  for  medical  uses. 

As  she  stood,  her  scant  white  skirts  brushed  the 
poppies'  bells  of  shaken  flame.  It  was  a  clear,  warm 
evening  in  June.  Baby  airs  dropped  laughing  over  the 
hedge  of  Mistress  Wilful's  garden,  pelted  each  other 
with  great  fistfuls  of  perfume,  and  played  at  hide-and- 
seek  amid  the  blossoming  mimosa.  Humming-birds 
darted  in  and  out  with  a  soft  whir  of  tiny  wings. 
Life  was  keyed  to  a  high,  joyous  pitch.  The  opulent 
gladness  and  beauty  of  a  Southern  summer-time  rioted 
everywhere. 

Only  in  the  girl's  wide,  woeful  eyes  lay  the  shadow 
that  sunshine  could  not  lighten.  Her  filmy,  lusterless 
black  hair  was  loosened  under  the  white  sunbonnet. 
As  she  heard  a  horse  approaching,  she  drew  this  latter 
down  to  hide  the  telltale  redness  of  her  eyes. 

"Good  even,  Mistress  Guion,"  called  David's  cheer 
ful  voice  across  the  hedge;  "I  bring  you  a  message — 
nay,  't  is  not  a  message,  but  information  of  which  you 
may  or  may  not  be  glad." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  tall  man  with  the  laugh 
ing  boy  before  him  on  his  saddle,  and  the  painful  color 
flooded  her  wan  face  till  it  was  deeply  flushed. 

"May  Reasie  have  some  pitty  f'owers,  p'ease?"  cried 
the  child.  And  David,  dismounting,  set  the  boy  inside 
the  hedge,  while  he  himself  stood  close  outside  to  speak 
to  Wilful. 


MISTRESS  JOY  343 

"What  is  your  message?  Is  he  coming  back?"  she 
whispered,  putting  her  hands  together  and  wringing 
them  in  her  distress. 

Batchelor  nodded. 

"Oh,  I  cannot  bear  it — if  he  come  back.  Once,  al 
ready,  have  I  been  strong  and  sent  him  away.  But  if 
he  come  back  again,  what  shall  I  do !" 

"Nay,  sister,"  returned  Batchelor,  much  moved,  and 
falling  into  a  rare  use  of  the  Methodist  form  of  ad 
dress;  "if  you  are  weak,  you  know  where  to  go  for 
strength." 

"My  God!"  broke  out  the  tortured  girl;  "have  I  not 
prayed  through  long,  weary  nights,  when  sleep  was 
denied  me — have  I  not  prayed  ?  Oh,  David  Batchelor, 
what  do  you  know?  You,  who  are  strong  and  good 
—and  cold !" 

David  smiled  a  curious  smile,  which  had  the  tender 
ness  of  a  blessing  and  the  sadness  of  tears.  "Am  I 
cold,  think  you,  Mistress  Wilful?  Have  I  no  heart 
to  ache?  Well,  have  it  so." 

She  threw  back  her  head,  and  laughed  a  little  wildly. 
The  white  bonnet  slipped  from  her  disordered  hair, 
and  Batchelor  saw  for  the  first  time  the  disarray  of  her 
whole  appearance,  the  haggard,  worn  look  of  the  sweet, 
young  face. 

"Hearts,  Master  Batchelor!"  she  cried,  mockingly. 
"Have  men  hearts,  too?  And  can  they  suffer  so? 
Nay,  I  will  never  believe  it." 

Batchelor  reached  impulsively  across  the  hedge,  and 
caught  the  two  little  hands  which  she  flung  out  in  a 
gesture  of  dissent.  They  were  like  ice,  and  trembled 
in  his  own. 

"Poor  child,  poor  little  one!  'T  is  the  tenderest 
things  life  bruises  most,  methinks.  And  has  it  come 
to  this,  little  sister?  Has  it  gone  so  far?" 

He  looked  off  to  the  westering  sun,  and  his  blue  eyes, 
direct  and  fearless,  caught  a  glow  from  the  warm  sky. 


344  MISTRESS  JOY 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then,  kind,  infinitely  com 
passionate,  they  came  back  to  rest  upon  the  white  face 
near  him. 

"Hearts?"  he  repeated.  "Aye,  some  of  us.  And, 
little  one,  hearts  are  troublesome,  belike,  for  men  as 
for  women." 

A  sort  of  ashen  horror  settled  down  on  the  girl's 
tense  features.  "I  do  sometimes  believe  he  hath  no 
heart  to  trouble  him.  Oh,  Master  Batchelor,  may  I 
speak  to  you?  I  have  no  one  to  counsel  with,  and  I 
am  in  sore  trouble." 

Without  a  word,  David  sought  the  gate,  entered,  and 
drew  the  trembling  girl  to  a  bench  beneath  a  gnarled 
old  plum-tree.  "Now,  Mistress  Wilful,  speak  to  me 
as  freely  as  you  will.  Command  me  as  you  would  com 
mand  your  own  members.  I  will  be  hand  and  foot 
for  you,  and  never  a  mind  to  judge  you  nor  remember 
aught  you  would  fain  I  should  forget." 

Then  all  the  long  repressed  misery  and  terror  in  the 
poor  child's  mind  burst  forth.  She  told,  in  a  few 
broken  and  almost  incoherent  sentences,  of  Burr's  in 
sidious  encroachments  from  warm  friend  to  passion 
ate  and  declared  lover,  her  humiliation  that  this  love 
should  be  so  openly  spoken  without  formal  declaration 
of  his  intentions.  "He  claims  all  and — and — offers 
nothing!"  she  sobbed. 

"He  has  not  presumed — he  has  not  dared — " 

"No,  no!  But  if  he  offers  to  put  no  open  affront 
upon  me,  neither  does  he  offer  to  honor  me.  He  talks 
of  love,  and  love — oh,  David,  he  talks  so  sweetly,  I 
think  an  angel's  voice  could  speak  no  sweeter  than  his 
voice  when  he  talks  of  love.  But  there  is  no  word  of 
marriage,  or  the  future.  And  I  sometimes — " 

She  sprang  up,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 
Standing  before  him,  a  slim,  shaken  figure  for  which 
the  moonlight  and  the  sunset  glow  struggled,  she  half 


MISTRESS  JOY  345 

sobbed,  half  whispered,  "I  love  him  so,  David,  that 
sometimes  I  am  afraid  I — I  am  afraid —  Oh,  I  am 
sorely  terrified !" 

"Your  mother,"  suggested  David,  with  husky  voice 
and  swimming  eyes. 

"Speak  not  of  her,"  interrupted  poor  Wilful.  "She 
is  so  dotingly  fond,  he  hath  so  beguiled  her,  that  she 
oft  reproaches  me  for  my  coldness  to  him,  when  my 
own  heart  is  breaking  and  I  feel  I  must  be  firm." 

David  rose  and  looked  at  her.  She  stood  like  a 
young  martyr,  straight  and  white,  with  the  flaunting 
poppies  ablaze  at  her  feet. 

She  bent  and  crushed  the  glowing  petals  to  her  face, 
as  though  to  steep  her  senses  in  the  Lethe  of  their  fate 
ful  odor.  Plucking  from  their  midst  a  long-stemmed 
handful,  she  raised  them  to  her  lips  and  held  them 
toward  him,  saying,  with  a  pitiful  half-smile : 

"See,  here  is  forgetfulness,  here  is  sleep — that  sleep 
which  hath  forsworn  my  pillow.  Oh,  David,"  with  a 
breaking  sob,  "I  never  sleep  now.  His  face,  filled  with 
smiling,  or  proud  and  angry,  or  drowned  and  dead, 
swims  between  sleep  and  me." 

"God !"  from  him  who  sat,  big  and  strong,  beside 
her,  "no  man  's  worth  it." 

"Yes,  David,  it  does ;  it  swims  between  me  and  sleep, 
just  as  it  swims  between  God  and  me  when  I  try  to 
pray.  And,  oh,  I  am  afraid — so  afraid — of  what  I 
may  be  tempted  to —  And  here  is  forgetfulness." 

"Nay,  child,"  said  David,  a  world  of  passionate  pity 
in  voice  and  eyes,  as  he  took  the  crushed  blossoms  from 
her  nerveless  fingers  and  strewed  them  on  the  grass  at 
her  feet;  "never  that.  'T  is  medicine  for  a  bruised 
body — I  mind  we  bound  them  on  my  hand  last  spring 
when  I  had  it  crushed  in  the  gin-wheel — but  for  a 
bruised  spirit,  for  a  wounded  heart,  never  drug  it. 
There  is  a  medicine,  there  is  a  balm,  but  we  can  find 


346  MISTRESS  JOY 

it  only  through  pain,   my  poor  dear — only  through 
pain." 

The  ghost  of  that  wan  smile  flickered  again  over 
Mistress  Wilful's  face.  "Oh,  think  you  not  I  have 
suffered  enough  to  find  it?  Surely,  I  have  suffered 
enough." 

"Nay,"  said  David,  "there  is  one  more  pang;  once 
more  he  will  come;  once  more  you  must  be  strong. 
Are  there — are  there  letters,  writings  of  yours,  in  that 
man's  possession?  I  have  been  told  that  when  angered 
by  resistance  he  makes  cruel  use  of  such." 

Poor  Wilful  flinched,  and  crimsoned  to  the  poppies' 
hue.  "Can  he — can  any  man — be  so  base?"  she  cried. 

"He  has  such  writings,  then?"  urged  Batchelor. 
"You  must  have  them  from  him  again.  Think  of  your 
good  name." 

"Ah,"  with  a  catch  in  her  voice,  "  't  is  past  praying 
for,  I  fear.  At  best,  't  is  sadly  blown  upon.  Is  't  not 
so,  Master  Batchelor?  Do  not  folk  speak  lightly  of 
me?"  And  she  studied  his  face  with  terror-stricken 
eyes — that  face  of  such  fathomless  and  impersonal 
kindliness.  "My  father  used  to  say  that  when  a  maid's 
good  name  was  soiled,  nothing  but  churchyard  mold 
could  cleanse  it.  Churchyard  mold — a  brave  shelter 
and  oft  I  wish  that  I  lay  under  it." 

Reasie  had  found  the  old  garden  a  world  built  for 
a  boy's  delight.  His  shrill  pipe  broke  insistently  into 
the  evening  stillness.  His  yellow  curls  were  tossed 
about  his  heated  face,  as  his  ruthless  baby  feet  tram 
pled  through  the  poppies  and  crushed  their  sleepy  splen 
dors  into  the  earth.  His  grimy  little  hands  reached 
forward  for  a  floating  butterfly  adrift  like  a  loosened 
petal  on  the  scented  air. 

"Ho !  de  f'ower  f'ied  away.  Det  Reasie  pitty 
f'ower,"  he  cried.  They  stood  among  the  glowing 
poppies,  the  child  a  sphered  delight,  the  girl  with  life's 


MISTRESS  JOY  347 

broken  chalice  at  her  feet,  disillusioned  youth  incar 
nate;  beside  them,  David's  calm,  protecting  strength. 

"Nay,  nay,"  he  protested,  and  again  his  firm,  sup 
ple  fingers  shut  hers  close,  and  sent  to  the  poor,  cold, 
tired  heart  of  the  shaken  girl  a  wave  of  hope  and  cour 
age.  "Dear  little  one,  only  we  can  befoul  ourselves. 
We  are  but  what  we  ourselves  make  us,  and  you — you 
little,  fluttering,  half-caged  dove  of  purity" — he  smiled 
into  the  dark,  mournful  eyes  with  a  world  of  tender 
ness  and  faith — "the  bars  shall  snap  and  you  be  free 
again.  Foulness  and  thou,  sweet  Wilful  Guion,  are 
worlds  apart.  Be  no  more  frightened.  Meet  the  test 
but  once  again,  and  then — freedom,  dear  little  child." 

He  stooped  his  towering,  fair  head  and  touched  each 
little,  cold,  trembling  hand  with  his  warm,  firm  lips. 
Then  he  turned  and  left  her  standing  amid  her  poppies, 
\vith  a  look  of  new-born  courage  in  her  face. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 


power  of  the  woman  who  has  once 
cast  a  man  off,  flouted  and  scorned 
him  is,  if  she  choose  to  prove  kind, 
easily  resumed.  Jessop,  flung  back 
upon  himself,  pushed,  as  it  were,  into 
the  old  life,  drifted  slowly  but  surely 
beneath  Madame's  influence.  To 
stand  still  in  his  own  strength  was  a  thing  denied  him. 
Was  he  not  traveling  toward  heaven?  Then  pitward 
at  a  quickstep. 

He  was.  wounded  in  spirit,  his  heart  was  sore,  but, 
most  of  all,  his  vanity  and  self-esteem  were  abraded. 
Madame,  who  had  during  his  earlier  acquaintance 
with  her  chosen  to  treat  him  as  an  inferior,  now  took 
quite  another  tone.  She  was  at  all  times  his  admirer, 
his  adoring  suitor.  Her  house  —  and  its  atmosphere 
agreed  with  one  phase  of  Jessop's  development  quite 
perfectly  —  was  always  open  to  him.  He  came  and 
went  unquestioned. 

When  there,  it  was  shown  him  that  his  presence  was 
much  desired  and  delighted  in;  he  was  made  the  head 
and  center  of  everything.  But  if  he  chose  to  absent 
himself,  as  he  often  did  for  weeks,  he  was  not  re 
proached  nor  made  uncomfortable  because  of  it.  Most 
powerful  of  all,  he  was  amply  supplied  with  money. 

Jessop's  heart  had  failed  him  when  he  came  to  the 
point  of  writing  home  for  funds.  He  could  not  ad- 

348 


MISTRESS  JOY  349 

dress  the  father  whom  he  had  disgraced,  nor  the  bro 
ther  who  had  dismissed  him  with  such  farewells  as  he 
flinched  yet  to  remember.  He  compromised  by  writing 
to  the  Jews,  to  raise  money  on  his  very  remote  pros 
pect  of  succession  to  the  earldom.  His  elder  brother, 
a  man  of  powerful  physique,  was  recently  married,  and 
these  chances  appeared  so  slight  that,  but  for  the  nearer 
prospect  of  his  family  being  some  day  hounded  into 
paying  his  debts,  it  would  seem  unlikely  any  money 
whatever  could  be  raised  in  that  way. 

Madame  knew  her  spendthrift.  She  lined  his  pock 
ets  well.  She  left  him  free  to  take  his  pleasures,  and 
bided  her  time.  Three  years  before,  when  Jessop — 
then  a  raw  boy,  with  three  lives  between  him  and  an 
earldom — met  her  in  New  Orleans,  she  considered  him 
worth  plucking  only  for  the  modest  patrimony  he 
brought  with  him.  Jessop  himself,  in  the  flush  of  his 
first  love  for  her,  talked  marriage.  The  remembrance 
that  she  herself  had  at  the  time  rejected  such  an  idea 
gave  her  a  sense  of  security  now,  when  she  desired  to 
marry  him. 

But  the  Jessop  of  three  years  before  and  the  Jessop 
of  to-day — though  he  came  back  to  her,  glad  to  do  so, 
and  she  was  able  to  fan  the  embers  of  his  passion  into 
some  little  glow — were  different  men. 

His  life  in  Father  Tobias's  cabin,  most  of  all  his 
knowledge  of  Joyce  Valentine  and  his  love  for  her, 
had  put  something  into  his  nature,  or  wakened  some 
thing  already  there,  with  which  Madame  found,  as  time 
went  on,  she  had  to  reckon. 

About  the  middle  of  September  he  received  a  bulky 
package  from  London.  His  negotiations  with  the 
Jews  had  been  unexpectedly  and  speedily  successful. 
He  sat  in  his  own  room  alone,  and  spread  his  wealth 
upon  the  table  before  him.  It  would  not  have  been 
Jessop's  way  to  ask  for  a  modest  sum.  What  lay  there 


350  MISTRESS  JOY 

would  repay  Madame,  and  leave  him  enough  to  begin 
the  purchase  of  that  plantation  at  Natchez. 

With  the  thought  was  brought  up  also  the  picture 
of  Joy's  face — not  the  haughty  young  beauty  of  the 
ball-room,  not  that  queen  of  the  revels  coining  down 
between  the  upraised  swords,  but  the  Joyce  he  had 
known  back  in  Natchez — strong,  true,  tender,  kind, 
and,  above  all,  pure — pure  with  the  limpid,  untouched 
purity  which  a  debauched  man  of  the  world  rates 
higher  than  a  good  man  would. 

The  money  represented  freedom — and  Joy.  He  got 
up,  pushed  the  papers  into  his  pocket,  and  drew  a  long 
breath.  The  past  months  went  dully  before  him. 
They  seemed,  in  the  reviewing,  jumbled  and  unreal  as 
a  dream.  He  was  like  a  man  recovering  from  a  fever. 
Surely  he  would  go  at  once.  He  wondered  at  the 
triviality  of  the  things  which  had  held  him  from  Joy 
so  long. 

His  was  a  most  uncautious  temperament,  and  yet 
when  he  came  to  repay  Madame  and  inform  her  that  he 
was  going  away  he  used  some  caution.  He  had  been 
made  aware  more  than  once  what  her  present  hopes 
were.  He  feared  a  scene  if  he  informed  her  that  it  was 
now  his  determination  to  break  with  her  forever,  and  so 
he  merely  announced  his  intention  of  visiting  friends  in 
the  East  for  a  time. 

When  she  tearfully  rejected  the  money,  he  pressed 
it  laughingly  upon  her,  suggesting  that  she  be  his 
banker  for  so  much,  adding  that  when  he  had  once  more 
lost  his  all  he  would  come  back  for  it. 

Arrived  at  Natchez,  a  sudden  timidity  seized  him. 
The  stake  began  to  appear  so  great  that  he  feared  to 
play  out  his  hand. 

After  long  hesitation,  he  went  finally  to  David 
Batchelor.  He  did  not  desire  that  Joy  should  know 
he  was  in  Natchez,  but  "The  Meadows"  was  removed 


MISTRESS  JOY  351 

a  distance  from  Pastor  Valentine's  cabin,  and  he  was 
able  to  have  some  long  and  serious  conversations  with 
Master  Batchelor,  without  the  news  reaching  any  mem 
ber  of  the  Society. 

David,  while  amused  at  Jessop's  childlike  ignoring 
of  their  last  interview  and  the  plainness  of  speech  used 
then  on  both  sides,  met  him  kindly.  He  was  generous 
as  well  as  just,  and  these  two  qualities  united  to  make 
him  especially  kind  toward  this  wanderer  returning  to 
the  beacon  which  had  for  so  short  a  time  lighted  his 
way.  Then,  back  in  Batchelor's  consciousness,  though 
he  realized  it  not  at  all,  lay  the  conviction  that  he, 
David  Batchelor,  could  here  well  afford  generosity. 

Jessop  learned  from  him  of  Joy's  course  in  offering 
to  withdraw  from  the  Society.  He  judged,  from  what 
David  told  him,  that,  while  much  changed,  all  that  he 
loved  best  in  her  still  remained — that  she  was,  indeed, 
better  suited  to  become  his  wife  than  she  had  been 
before.  Three  mornings  the  two  men  spent  talking 
over  these  things,  with  little  Reason  playing  at  their 
feet  or  running  out  and  in,  to  bring  childish  discoveries 
or  treasures  to  David's  notice. 

Master  Batchelor  gave  to  the  other  every  help  which 
he  would  have  given  a  beloved  brother.  One  thing 
only  he  refused,  and  that  was  to  accept  the  office  of 
ambassador. 

"Nay,  Major  Jessop,"  he  repeated,  "Joyce  Valen 
tine  could  never  love  a  coward.  You  must  e'en  face 
your  fate,  and  'dree  your  weird,'  whatever  it  may 
be." 

"I  know — I  know  she  would  not,"  Jessop  agreed, 
and  declared  that  he  would  go  on  the  morrow. 

After  he  left  New  Orleans,  Madame,  whose  thoughts 
were  much  engrossed  with  that  which  was  now  her 
all  engrossing  scheme,  received  letters  from  certain 
friends  of  hers  in  England,  advising  her  of  the  death, 


352  MISTRESS  JOY 

without  issue,  of  Jessop's  brother.  The  old  father,  too, 
lay  very  ill.  Any  hour  might  see  him  pass  away. 

She  knew  her  plans  ruined  if  this  knowledge  came 
to  Jessop  before  she  should  have  persuaded  and  cajoled 
him  into  that  marriage  with  herself  which  he  had  once 
so  much  desired  and  she  had  denied  him.  The  cadet 
of  a  noble  house  might  marry  a  woman  of  her  sort. 
She  seriously  doubted  that  Jessop,  once  come  into  his 
title,  would  consider  it  at  all. 

She  sent  to  his  hotel,  as  he,  when  at  her  house,  often 
sent,  and  secured  such  letters  as  had  accumulated  for 
him.  These,  opened,  brought  her  even  later  informa 
tion  than  her  own.  The  earl  was  dead.  Jessop  had 
succeeded  to  the  title. 

Now,  it  occurred  to  her  that  at  such  news  as  this 
'Sieur  Valentine's  niece  might  once  more  take  the  field. 
It  was  worth  while,  she  thought,  to  make  a  journey 
up  the  river. 

She  would  warn  the  girl  that  Jessop  was  already 
wedded ;  or,  that  story  failing,  try  to  work  upon  her 
sympathies,  posing  as  a  deserted  and  heart-broken 
woman.  So  that  when  Jessop  set  forth  that  morning 
in  early  October  for  the  little  cabin  by  the  river,  Ma 
dame  was  moving  tovvard  the  same  goal. 

His  feelings  were  much  mingled  as  his  feet  carried 
him  along  the  old  familiar  path.  He  was  ashamed, 
he  was  afraid;  and  yet,  now  that  his  face  was  set 
toward  Joyce,  toward  purity  and  honest  love  and  all 
she  stood  for  to  his  wayward  heart,  there  fell  on  his 
soul  a  great  peace. 

He  was  curiously  like  a  school-boy  going  home  to 
be  reproved,  but,  as  he  trusted,  taken  into  loving  arms 
once  more.  Joy's  strength,  her  faithful  courage  and 
patient  mastery  of  herself,  her  brave,  undying  hopeful 
ness,  endeared  her  to  him,  and,  even  more  than  her 
beauty,  made  him  long  for  her. 

There  were  changes  in  the  outer  aspect  of  the  cabin, 


MISTRESS  JOY  353 

which  he  was  too  preoccupied  to  note  as  he  stepped 
inside  the  gate. 

Joy,  all  in  white — the  selfsame  Joy  — her  bright  hair 
ruffled  above  that  serene  brow  of  hers,  came  to  the 
open  door.  She  looked  at  him,  and  her  lips  even  were 
drained  of  color. 

Joy's  face  was  always  pale,  with  a  sweet,  warm 
whiteness  which  belonged  to  its  beauty. 

He  halted  a  pace  from  the  door ;  she  put  her  hand  up 
to  its  lintel  to  steady  herself,  and  these  two,  who  had 
been  so  much  to  each  other,  stood  for  one  long,  deso 
late  moment  confronted  in  silence. 

'T  was  the  man  who  spoke  first.  "I  have  come  back, 
Joy,"  he  said,  in  a  sort  of  undertone. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  as  low;  "why  did  you  so?" 

He  came  toward  her,  and  attempted  to  take  her  hand. 
"Why  did  I,  dear  heart?"  he  whispered.  "Because  I 
love  you." 

"Not  here,"  she  cried,  a  little  wildly,  "not  in  my 
father's  house!  I  will  not  hear  such  words  as  these 
where  he  is." 

"I  must  talk  to  you,  Joy,"  urged  Jessop,  humbly. 
"You  would  never  condemn  unheard — not  even  the 
greatest  criminal." 

"Out  under  the  free  sky,  then,"  she  answered  him; 
"not  in  this  place.  Yes,  I  will  hear  you,  Master  Jes 
sop."  She  struggled  for  composure.  "I  was  going, 
but  now,  to  the  grove  for  autumn  leaves  and  berries. 
Come,  an  't  please  you.  We  can  talk  there." 

Lalla,  who  had  been  provided  with  a  basket  for  the 
excursion  of  which  Joy  spoke,  followed,  and  together 
they  went  in  almost  complete  silence  down  the  little 
winding  path  into  the  beech  grove. 

Brilliant  leaves  already  carpeted  the  ground,  but  the 
branches  above  were  still  clad  in  their  valiant  autumn 
livery. 

The  season  spoke  to  Jessop  of  Joyce  Valentine ;  even 
23 


354  MISTRESS  JOY 

so  would  she  meet  disaster,  defeat,  death  itself,  with 
colors  flying,  with  all  her  beauty  brought  well  to  the 
front,  and  brave  and  strong  and  glorious  to  the  last 

Joy  stood  bareheaded  under  the  glowing  branches  in 
the  splendid  wood. 

The  child,  pushing  her  basket  close,  asked :  "Will 
Madonna  reach  those  tall  boughs  for  me  now?  Then 
I  will  get  the  berries." 

Joy  turned  absently,  forgetful  of  Jessop's  presence, 
and  began  breaking  those  beautiful  bouquet-like  branch- 
ends  of  the  sour-wood,  which  run  from  winey  red  to 
softest  rose. 

When  the  basket  was  piled  high  she  stopped,  a  great 
crimson  spray  still  in  her  ringers,  and  turned  quietly  to 
Jessop.  "You  may  speak  now,"  she  said,  "if  you  have 
aught  to  say  to  me." 

Her  tone  was  quite  passionless  and  calm.  The  thing 
which  shook  Jessop's  heart  with  terror  was  that  it  was 
almost  kind. 

"What  is  it,  Joy?"  he  began  feverishly.  "What  is 
this  thing  which  hath  come  between  thee  and  me? 
Where  did  I  miss  the  road  to  thy  heart?  I  thought  I 
knew  it  once.  If  I  have  been  in  error,  set  me  right. 
In  mercy  set  me  right,  I  pray  you." 

"I  met  Madame  Jessop  when  I  was  in  New  Orleans. 
I  saw  you  with  her  at  the  theater,"  said  Joy,  abruptly. 

A  great  relief  appeared  in  Jessop's  face.  "Was  that 
all,  sweetheart?"  he  inquired.  "Was  't  there  the  cloud 
began  to  form  between  us?  Nay,  dear,  there  is  no 
Madame  Jessop,  but  I  am  very  fain  that  there  should 
be  a  Mistress  Jessop,  and  that  soon." 

"I  saw  you  with  her  at  the  theater,"  repeated  Joyce. 

Jessop  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She  belongs  to 
the  past,  Joy,"  he  said.  "I  had  many  friends  before  I 
met  you — whom — I  would  not  that  my  wife  should 
know." 


MISTRESS  JOY  355 

He  pronounced  the  words  "my  wife"  proudly  and 
tenderly,  but  Joyce  was,  to  her  own  surprise,  curiously 
unmoved  by  them. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  urgency,  there  came 
before  the  man  a  picture  of  the  pitiful  figure  he  cut 
in  it  all. 

"  'T  is  husks  that  I  am  offering  you,  my  dear,"  he 
said  humbly;  "you  who  have  stores  of  garnered  grain; 
but  Joy,  dear  Joy,  your  love  could  make  me  anything." 

"Yea,  could  it?"  asked  Joy,  thoughtfully.  "It  hath 
not  done  so  in  the  past,  meseems.  And  now,  to  be 
quite  honest  with  you,  I  do  think  I  have  no  love — such 
as  you  ask — to  give  you." 

"In  the  past?"  echoed  Jessop.  "But  then  were  you 
not  my  wife.  With  you  always  at  my  side — O  Joy, 
with  you! — I  should  never  be  tempted;  or,  being 
tempted,  I  should  never  fall  from  what  is  best  and 
highest  in  me.  Dear,  can  you  forgive  the  past — an 
ugly,  sinful,  hateful  past?" 

Joy  turned  to  him,  and  put  out  both  her  hands. 
"Why,  yes,"  she  said,  "right  heartily;  if  I  have  aught 
to  forgive,  being  myself  a  sinful  creature,  I  can  forgive 
it  you." 

The  calm  frankness  of  her  tone  struck  cold  on  Jes- 
sop's  passionate  mood.  "A  sinful  creature?  Nay,  you 
are  an  angel,  and  had  I  you  beside  me,  life  were 
heaven." 

The  old,  maternal  feeling,  which  was,  after  all,  the 
base  of  Joy's  affection  for  the  man,  swelled  in  her  heart 
as  she  looked  at  him.  He  watched  her  face,  and, 
"Joy,"  he  cried  jealously,  "those  who  really  love  do 
not  forgive  so  easily !" 

"Am  I  too  kind?"  she  asked,  smiling  a  little.  "  'T  is 
true,  then,  that  I  do  not  love  you;  but  well  I  know  I 
wish  you  every  good." 

"Will  you  marry  me?"  he  questioned  fiercely,  catch- 


356  MISTRESS  JOY 

ing  her  wrist,  and  looking  into  her  eyes.  "Do  you 
mean  that?  Or  is  it  that  you  will  cast  me  back  into 
that  mire  from  which  you  plucked  me?  Oh,  women 
are  all  alike!  You  have  seen  things  finer,  to  your 
thinking,  and  now  the  man  you  once  cajoled  may  wend 
to  hell  for  aught  you  care !" 

Joy  regarded  him  gravely.  "If  your  salvation  ap 
pears  to  you  to  depend  upon  an  imperfect  creature  like 
myself,"  she  said,  "you  are  in  great  error.  I  wish  you 
well.  I  might  even  say  I  love  you ;  at  least,  I  love  the 
memory  of  what  hath  been  between  us,  but — " 

"Oh,  do  not  say  it!"  broke  in  Jessop's  anguished 
tones.  "Forgive  me,  Joy!  I  am  a  soul  in  torment. 
You  cannot  expect  smooth  speeches  from  the  damned." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


HILE  poor  Jessop  pleaded  with  Joyce 
his  cause — a  cause  which,  after  all, 
was  perhaps  prejudged,  and  sentence 
already  passed — while  he  brought 
forward  every  argument  and  invoked 
every  aid  his  love  could  suggest,  a 
skiff  with  white  awning  and  six  black 
rowers  drew  up  to  the  little  creek  landing  by  Father 
Tobias's  cabin.  From  it  there  stepped  a  figure  which 
appeared  wildly  out  of  place  in  that  rude,  homely  set 
ting.  It  was  that  of  a  woman  whose  beauty  was 
great,  though  not  youthful.  Her  gown  of  gay  brocade 
was  stiff  with  bullion  broideries,  work  of  the  chilly 
ringers  of  patient  nuns.  Her  powdered  hair  was  raised 
high  over  a  cushion.  Her  square-cut  gown  showed 
the  white  neck  and  bosom,  with  a  bare  shadowing  of 
lace  tucker.  She  was  dressed  as  for  a  rout.  For 
added  stateliness,  she  had  wrapped  a  great  furred  man 
tle  about  her,  and  she  carried  a  tall,  lacquered,  berib- 
boned  cane. 

As  she  came  trailing  her  magnificence  up  to  Father 
Tobias's  door,  the  old  man  stared  at  her — and  well  he 
might — half  thinking  her  the  idle  fantasy  of  a  dream. 
He  paused,  with  his  ringer  in  the  book  he  had  been 
reading  as  he  sat  there  under  the  great  beech-trees,  and 
rising,  bowed  and  asked  if  he  could  serve  her. 

"This  is,  methinks,"  she  said,  with  a  most  ingratiat 
ing  smile,  "Master  Tobias  Valentine.     Nay,  sir   I  do 
24  357 


353  MISTRESS  JOY 

not  care  to  sit;  rather  will  I  stand  here  until  I  find 
whether  I  may  have  speech  with  Mistress  Valentine. 
'T  is  she  I  seek." 

The  old  man  called  Zette,  and  Zette  informed  them 
that  Mistress  Joy  had  gone  with  a  servant  to  the  grove 
to  gather  leaves  and  flowers  for  dressing  the  house. 
Something  in  the  woman's  appearance  aroused  the  ne~ 
gress's  antagonism.  "If  ze  lady,"  she  suggested,  "will 
go  up  in  her  boat  a  li'l'  way,  she  fin'  ze  bayou.  Dass 
where  Missie  Joyous  iss.  Unless  she  lak  to  wait  here?" 

The  lady  was  as  little  willing  to  wait  as  Zette  was 
desirous  to  have  her  do  so.  Calling  her  attendant,  a 
great,  gaunt  negress  all  in  white,  she  returned  to  her 
boat,  and  so  on  up  the  stream  and  out  of  sight. 

JOY'S  heart,  so  tender  where  this  man  was  in  question, 
still  held  back  from  the  ultimate  pain  of  a  complete 
rejection.  Her  eyes  were  so  pitying,  her  very  silence 
so  ruthful,  that  Jessop  hoped  he  might  be  winning  back 
something  of  what  he  had  once  believed  his. 

As  Madame  came  upon  these  two,  standing  like  lov 
ers  in  the  glowing  wood,  her  wrath  flared  up  mightily. 
Jessop  was  here,  then.  Her  errand  was,  as  it  appeared 
to  her,  all  in  vain.  This  creature  whom  she  had 
robbed  both  of  his  money  and  his  honor,  whom  she  had 
had  at  call  like  any  spaniel,  was  daring  now  to  choose 
for  himself  a  wife. 

Well,  let  him  so.  As  for  herself,  she  was  dead 
weary  of  the  part  which  she  had  played.  She  crossed 
her  hands  upon  the  cane  and  stood,  with  sneering  lips, 
regarding  them.  The  patch  set  below  the  rouge  upon 
her  cheek  flaunted  the  skull  and  crossed  bones  of  the 
pirate  flag.  It  was  her  humor  thus  at  times  to  glory 
in  the  shame  of  that  early  pirate  lover  of  hers.  The 
ensign  well  suited  her.  She  was  a  pirate  upon  the 
land,  even  as  he  had  been  upon  the  high  seas.  Now 


MISTRESS  JOY  359 

she  decided,  having  failed,  to  carry  all  off  with  a  high 
hand. 

"So!"  she  cried,  in  her  clear,  ringing  voice.  "My 
Lord  Edward  Montfalcon  a'Jessop,  Earl  of  Shropshire, 
I  am  too  late.  I  came  up  to  this  place  to  intercede 
with  this  young  damsel  upon  your  behalf.  I  perceive 
that  a  mightier  than  I — -even  1'Amour  himself — hath 
pleaded  your  cause." 

Jessop  and  Joy  both  turned.  Joy  saw  the  woman 
she  had  known  as  Madame  Jessop.  Jessop  answered 
the  newcomer  coldly.  "You  give  me  strange  titles," 
he  said.  "What  brings  you  here?" 

And  now  the  woman's  cheek  needed  no  rouge.  "I 
give  you  your  own,"  she  replied.  "And  mind  you," 
she  added,  "ye  silly,  mawkish  boy,  not  fit  to  thread  my 
shoe,  who  hint  that  I  come  after  you  because  of  love — 
mind  you,  I  say,  't  is  the  earldom  I  fain  would  have 
wedded,  not  thee.  Miss,  here,  may  have  thee  and  thy 
foolish  beaux  yeux,  and  welcome.  'T  is  thy  title  and 
wealth  tempted  me  for  a  little." 

As  she  stood  there  and  sneered,  tall,  beautiful,  and 
above  all,  where  Jessop  was  concerned,  strong  and  self- 
poised,  he  felt  that,  if  Joy  should  cast  him  off,  he  would 
go  back  to  this  woman.  Poor  Jessop !  he  must  always 
be  Edward  Jessop — plus  some  one  else!  If  it  could 
not  be  his  good  angel,  why,  then,  room  there  for  the 
spread  of  his  bad  angel's  wings!  He  had  a  moun 
tain  of  belief  in  fate,  chance,  fortune,  circumstance,  the 
good  or  evil  which  might  be  portioned  out  to  him  by 
the  hand  of  another,  and  not  one  grain  of  faith  in  his 
own  ability  to  choose  for  himself  what  manner  of  man 
he  would  be,  what  life  he  would  lead. 

Something  of  this  Joy  felt,  and  the  old  protecting 
instinct,  always  strong  in  her  where  Jessop  was  con 
cerned,  was  roused  by  it.  Almost  she  wavered.  He 
was  so  weak;  he  needed  her  so  much. 


360  MISTRESS  JOY 

"Yea,  't  was  the  earldom,"  reiterated  Madame. 
"  'T  is  in  my  blood,  methinks,  to  honor  it.  You  be 
lieved,  perchance,  that  when  you  met  me  three  years 
agone,  you  met  me  then  for  the  first  time  ?" 

"I  had  seen  you  in  London.  Have  done  with  this ! 
Did  you  break  open  my  letters?  Is  my  father  indeed 
dead?"  returned  Jessop. 

"Aye,  you  had  seen  me  in  London,  on  the  dirty 
boards  of  a  theater,  where  I  would  not  have  shown  my 
face  except  that  there  I  kept  the  run  of  all  the  gallants 
worth  my  notice." 

"Is  the  old  man  gone,  then?"  Jessop  inquired  again, 
suddenly  and  huskily,  as  though  the  knowledge  had 
just  come  home  to  him.  "Would  that  he  might  have 
lived  to  see  me  amend  my  faults !  If  that  he  be  indeed 
gone,  the  more  reason  that  I  must  now  strive  to  live  as 
his  son  should." 

"Yea,  is  he  gone — and  Alfred,  too;  you  are,  as  I 
have  called  you,  earl.  And  I  was  born,  look  you,  my 
Jessop,  at  your  park  gates.  My  father — and  my  fa 
ther's  father — belonged  to  the  soil  your  fathers  owned. 
'T  is  strange  how  such  things  cling.  Much  as  I  have 
seen,  it  ever  seems  a  greater  thing  to  me  to  go  back — to 
that  home  which  flung  me  out — as  Countess  of  Shrop 
shire  than  as  Queen  of  England  !" 

Jessop  stood  looking  moodily  down  upon  the  scat 
tered  autumn  brilliance  at  his  feet.  Of  his  father's 
death  he  had  expected  to  hear  at  any  moment;  Alfred 
had  been  cold  and  unloving  always ;  both  had  disowned 
him  long  since;  yet,  at  the  thought  that  he  was  now 
utterly  alone,  there  came  sadness. 

"That  you  may  surely  know,"  taunted  Madame, 
"  't  was  not  for  yourself  but  for  your  title  I  did  follow 
you — why,  look  you :  while  Alfred  lived  I  would  not 
wed  you — not  I !  Aye,  mistress,"  turning  to  Joyce, 
"belike  he  hath  not  told  you  so,  but  't  is  true.  I 


MISTRESS  JOY  361 

changed  my  mind  only  when  I  learned  of  Alfred's  mor 
tal  sickness." 

"When  knew  you  of  it?"  inquired  Jessop. 

Madame  laughed  exultingly.  "Months  gone,"  she 
cried.  "Oh,  you  were  out  of  the  family  councils,  but 
I  was  in  them.  I  wrote  the  old  man,  when  your  last 
cent  was  gone,  telling  who  I  was  and  that  we  were  soon 
to  wed.  Aye,  that  wrung  his  pride — and  brought  the 
money  he  would  surely  have  denied  to  you.  'T  was 
better  worth  my  while  to  throw  you  over,  my  lord,  and 
to  be  bought  so  to  do  from  month  to  month,  than  't  was 
to  wed  you." 

"Have  you  done?"  asked  Jessop,  sternly.  "Will  you 
begone  now?  This  lady  here  and  I  were  speaking, 
when  you  came,  of  most  important  matters." 

Madame  burst  into  jarring  laughter.  "I  warrant 
me  you  were!  Hast  thou  converted  him,  mistress? 
Is  he  become  a  Methody  as  yet  ?  Yea,  turn  your  back 
on  me.  He  is  a  sweet,  attractive  sinner,  and  a  man — 
I  but  an  erring  woman." 

"If  there  were  aught  that  I  could  do  or  say — "  began 
Joy,  in  a  troubled  tone. 

"Nay,"  snarled  Madame,  "you  will  never  make  a 
Methody  of  me.  The  old  Church  is  good  enough  for 
my  sort.  'T  is  like  our  mothers  to  us.  We  cannot 
fall  so  low  but  that  its  arms  are  still  under  us.  It 
christens  us;  it  buries  us,  however  vile  we  be.  God's 
blood !"  she  burst  out  angrily,  "a  curse  upon  you  and 
your  Methody  whining,  that  set  me  talking  here  of 
death!" 

Jessop  drew  Joy  away.  The  woman  looked  after 
them  with  haggard  eyes,  in  which  there  were  some 
tears.  "  'T  is  not  his  love  I  grudge  her,"  she  mut 
tered  ;  "  't  is  not  his  love,  God  wot — nor  is  't  himself ! 
'T  is  that  she  can  love  again — that  she  can  desire  his 
love." 


362  MISTRESS  JOY 

She  regarded  the  two  youthful  figures,  moving  to 
gether  down  the  aisles  of  the  richly  colored  wood. 
"God — O  God !"  she  wailed.  "To  be  young  again  like 
that !  Not  only  to  be  loved,  but  to  be  loving !" 

She  shuddered,  and  drew  her  great  furred  and 
hooded  mantle  round  her.  Then,  with  bent  head,  she 
took  her  way  to  the  boat  which  waited  for  her. 

"I  will  go  home — there  I  can  forget  it." 

She  hurried  down  to  the  water's  edge,  looking  nei 
ther  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  her  head  held  low  and 
her  rich  silks  trailing  after  her. 

Zoombi  followed  sullenly.  She  had  not  been  able 
to  see  her  princess,  and  she  began  to  fear  that  she  was 
going  to  be  taken  away  without  one  glimpse. 

Had  Madame  not  been  so  preoccupied  with  her  cha 
grin,  she  would  have  seen  the  child's  thin,  little  black 
face  peering  at  her  from  behind  a  tree-trunk  almost  at 
the  water's  edge. 

The  rowers,  having  been  told  that  the  lady  would 
not  be  in  haste  to  return,  had  taken  the  opportunity  to 
go  further  up-stream  on  some  errand  of  their  own. 
Madame  swore  roundly  as  she  searched  the  empty 
waste  of  waters  for  them. 

Stepping  out  on  a  tussock  of  grass  which  reached 
into  the  shallow  water  at  the  stream's  edge,  she  leaned 
forward  and  gazed  up  and  down  the  river.  "Hang 
the  black  rascals !  Were  they  mine,  I  'd  cut  them  half 
to  pieces  for  such  doings,"  she  muttered. 

Zoombi  saw  her  princess  now.  Lai  was  bending 
round  from  behind  the  sheltering  tree-trunk,  making 
Masonic  signals  to  her  old  slave. 

She  pointed  to  Madame,  frowned,  pointed  again,  and 
then,  while  Zoombi  still  hung  stupidly  staring,  unable 
to  grasp  her  highness's  meaning,  the  child  slipped  out, 
stole  softly  up  behind  Madame,  bent,  clutched  the 
woman's  ankles,  and  dragged  her  down. 


MISTRESS  JOY  363 

"Now,  Zoombi!"  she  cried.  She  need  not  have 
called.  The  other,  with  that  quick  instinct  of  the  sav 
age  which  recognizes  deeds  though  it  be  dull  to  words 
or  signs,  flung  herself  promptly  upon  the  prostrate  and 
writhing  woman. 

Madame  was  strong,  there  were  people  within  easy 
earshot;  yet  these  two  poor  exiles,  whom  she  had 
flouted,  whom  she  had  shamed  and  degraded  without 
fear  of  any  reprisals,  held  her  down. 

The  sense  of  wrongs  long  borne  gave  might  to  the 
two  black  creatures.  They  saw  ia  her  the  incarnation 
of  that  fate  which  had  shut  them  out  from  home  and 
kindred.  Still  she  struggled,  and  still  they  held  her, 
strangled,  drowned  in  six  inches  of  muddy  water  as 
stained,  as  foul  as  was  the  thing  it  but  half  concealed. 

"Push  her  out  into  the  stream,  Zoombi.  Let  her 
go  back  home,"  whispered  Lalla,  hoarsely,  when  the 
prostrate  woman  lay  at  last  quite  still. 

Zoombi  stooped  to  the  drenched  form ;  a  black  finger 
plucked  at  the  jewels  on  delicate  hand  and  ear. 

"You  shall  not!"  cried  the  child.  "I  am  a  king's 
daughter,  and  I  do  not  steal."  Which  bit  of  royal 
honor  probably  saved  the  lives  of  both  blacks,  as,  with 
the  jewels  in  their  possession,  the  murder  must  in 
evitably  have  been  brought  home  to  them. 

Zoombi  obediently  slipped  back  the  ring  which  she 
had  half  withdrawn  from  the  dead  wroman's  finger. 
She  pushed  the  body,  first  with  her  foot  and  then  with 
a  sapling,  out  into  the  current,  that  the  stream  might 
take  it. 

Madame's  rowers,  a  little  later,  gave  scarce  a  thought 
to  Zoombi's  explanation  that  her  mistress  would  not 
return  with  them,  but  would  walk  back  to  the  cabin, 
and,  remaining  there,  take  the  keel-boat  as  it  passed. 

Among  those  who  frequented  her  house,  and  the  ser 
vants  in  it,  were  none  to  set  on  foot  earnest  inquiry  for 


364  MISTRESS  JOY 

Madame's  whereabouts.  She  might  take  her  own  time 
for  her  returning. 

Nobody  was  surprised  that  Madame  should  go  on, 
leaving  Zoombi  behind  to  accompany  Lalla  to  Jamaica 
— indeed  this  was  what  the  sisters  had  requested,  and 
what  she  had  given  an  unwilling  half  promise  to  do. 
Mother  Clemence  had  taken  the  precaution,  when  she 
heard  that  Madame  was  going  up  to  Natchez,  of  ad 
vising  Joy;  and  though  the  letter  was  delayed,  it  con 
firmed,  when  it  came,  Lai's  triumphant  announcement 
to  Joy  and  David.  "I  have  Zoombi  back  now.  The 
white  devil  hath  gone  home  without  her." 

When  time  brought  good  news  of  Lalla's  friends, 
Zoombi  and  the  child,  sent  by  David  Batchelor's  kind 
ness,  went  together  to  their  own  place,  forever  unsus 
pected  of  the  murder  and  forever  unrepentant  of  it. 

Neither  unpremeditated  criminal  thought  of  weights, 
so  Madame  was  not  handicapped  going  home.  The 
stiff,  unyielding  mud  clutched  and  clogged  her  for  a 
time,  but  at  last,  at  last  she  rose,  a  ghastly  thing,  and 
floated  back  whence  she  came. 

The  white  face,  with  its  dark  hair  all  unloosed  about 
it,  was  turned  upward,  sometimes  to  flaming  suns 
which  did  not  vex  her  quiet  eyes  at  all,  and  sometimes 
to  high,  vast,  black  night  skies,  all  filled  with  solemn 
stars  which  watched  her  like  accusing  eyes.  Cranes 
dipped  and  screamed  above  her,  the  water-fowl  flew 
over.  With  the  dark,  bats  came — hideous  creatures  of 
the  nightfall — and,  with  a  whir  of  naked  wings, 
swooped  to  the  water,  peered  into  the  dead  face,  with  its 
awful,  sightless,  staring  eyes,  and  sped  affrighted.  She 
who  had  been  ever  swift,  eager  to  reach  the  bourn  for 
which  she  strove,  dallied  long  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
torpid,  heavy  stream.  She  rested  whole  days  in  reed 
patches,  did  Madame,  on  this  last  journey. 

Out  in  midstream  the  great,  brutish  current  bore 


MISTRESS  JOY  365 

onward  like  a  bull.  But  Madame's  progress  was  slower 
than  the  shifty,  creeping  water  of  the  stream's  edge. 
Yet  it  was  sure.  And  the  big,  foul  stream  which 
muddies  all  it  touches,  muddied  her  and  tossed  her  and 
wrecked  her  beauty,  but  at  last  it  carried  her  home. 

LEFT  alone  with  Joy,  Jessop  made  one  more  trial  of 
his  fate. 

"Now,"  he  said,  and  his  piteous  tone  was  more  mov 
ing  to  her  than  any  fiery,  passionate  protestations — 
"now,  dear  heart,  you  know  the  worst  of  me.  This 
woman  bore  my  name  for  three  shameful  years.  My 
wife  she  never  was.  'T  was  only,  dear,"  he  has 
tened  to  add,  in  eager  honesty,  "because  she  did  not 
choose  to  be.  I  would  have  wedded  her  at  any  time  she 
had  said  the  word.  She  preferred  to  take  me,  young 
fool  that  I  was,  to  empty  me  of  all  the  wealth  I  had, 
and,  shaking  out  the  last  penny,  fling  me  aside.  'T  was 
then,  dear,  I  drifted  here  into  the  wilderness  and  found 
you,  my  Joy." 

"You  offered  her,"  said  Joy,  thoughtfully,  "just 
what  you  offer  me." 

Jessop  flung  himself  on  his  knees  before  her  and 
caught  a  fold  of  her  dress  with  an  impulsive,  protesting 
hand.  His  face,  upraised  to  hers,  was  pale  and  ardent. 

"Nay,  never  say  it,"  he  besought;  "she  had  naught 
from  me  which  I  would  offer  you.  All  that  is  best 
and  purest  and  most  manly  in  me — 't  is  not  much,  but 
what  there  is  of  good — I  do  not  offer  it  to  you — you 
have  it.  It  is  yours.  You  do  create  it,  love.  Say 
yes,"  he  added,  in  a  passionate  whisper.  "My  heart's 
delight,  say  yes." 

Joy  would  have  been  more  than  mortal  if  the  lofty 
title  and  estates  which  Madame  had  announced  had  not 
in  her  eyes  added  some  luster  to  the  charm  of  this  man, 
whom  she  already  held  tenderly  in  her  heart.  Her 


366  MISTRESS  JOY 

brief  glimpse  of  his  world  had  taught  her  something 
of  what  such  station  means.  She  knew  now  that  she 
loved  these  things  which  he  could  give  her — but  did 
she  love  him?  Almost  she  thought  so. 

Down  the  dim  aisle  of  the  wood  beyond  came 
David's  tall  figure.  He  was  singing  in  an  undertone, 
his  hound  at  heel,  the  image  of  poised,  contented  man 
hood.  Her  heart  answered  her. 

Jessop  turned  his  head,  never  moving  from  his  atti 
tude  of  supplication.  Batchelor  well  knew  the  whole 
affair.  No  need  to  bar  him  out.  Something  in  Joy's 
eyes  beckoned  the  on-coming  man,  and  he  went  for 
ward  till  he  stood  beside  her.  There  had  been  no 
word  as  yet  of  actual  love  between  them,  no  question 
asked  and  answered.  But,  as  he  paused  beside  her, 
Joy  said,  and  knew  that  she  was  safe  in  the  saying: 
"Nay,  friend;  my  choice  is  here." 

Jessop  rose  silently.  It  seemed  strange  to  him  now 
that  he  had  never  thought  of  this.  These  two  stood 
for  the  highest  spiritual  reach  of  his  life. 

As  he  faced  them  there,  the  splendors  of  the  autumn 
wood  above,  about,  beneath  them,  it  seemed  to  him — 
but  for  the  aching  of  his  own  heart  he  would  have  been 
glad  that  it  was  so — that  God  himself  had  mated  them. 

The  man  was  strength  in  repose,  inexhaustible  pa 
tience  and  courage  and  faith  to  respond  to  her  every 
demand. 

Joy  was  creative  energy,  the  force  in  action,  strong 
no  less,  but  from  the  nature  of  her  strength  requir 
ing  his. 

Jessop  lifted  his  hat,  and  the  beating  sun  fell  full 
upon  his  drawn,  white  face.  "Had  you  told  me  of  this 
sooner,  Mistress  Joy,"  he  said,  with  the  first  bitterness 
he  had  shown,  "it  had  spared  me  some  pain  and  been, 
methinks,  more  like  your  old,  kind  self." 

"Believe  me,  Master  Jessop,"  Joy  answered,  "you  do 


6 


DOWN    THE    DIM    AISLE    OF    THE   WOOD    BEYOND    CAME 
DAVID'S    TAI.I.    KKU'RE." 


J 

MISTRESS  JOY  367 

me  wrong.  'T  is  but  now  I  knew  it,  and  -scarce  do 
I  know  it  now." 

She  turned,  and  mutely  sent  a  question  from  her 
own  fearless  eyes  to  David's.  He  gave  her  back  a 
smile. 

"Aye,  is  it  so?"  asked  Jessop,  wearily.  Then,  as  if 
remembering  that  there  were  courtesies  to  be  observed, 
"A  wise  choice,  Mistress  Joy,"  he  said ;  "a  wise  choice, 
David  Batchelor."  And,  after  a  long,  heartsick  pause, 
"God  bless  you  both." 

WERE  Joyce  and  David  married?  Do  the  rivers  run 
into  the  sea?  Does  spring  follow,  after  winter  is  over? 
In  short,  do  the  things  which  God  has  ordained  come 
to  pass? 

And  were  they  happy?  Is  there  any  bliss  for  the 
river  like  that  of  losing  itself  in  the  sea  ?  Is  there  any 
joy  for  the  ocean  which  can  equal  that  of  receiving 
in  its  bosom  the  sweetness  and  freshness  of  the  stream  ? 
Can  you  not  feel  in  the  annual  spring  miracle  the  ti 
tanic  gladness  of  earth  herself? 

That  day  upon  which  Father  Tobias  rose  in  the  little 
meeting-house  amid  the  cane-brakes  to  make  this  twain 
one  was  not  to  them  only  a  day  to  mark  with  a  white 
stone.  The  old  man  had  called  David  his  spiritual 
son ;  this  day  was  to  make  him  a  son  indeed.  The  tears 
were  upon  his  saintly  face,  and  upon  the  face  of  many 
another,  as  he  pronounced  them  man  and  wife. 

It  was  not  till  years  afterward  that  the  great  church 
whose  foundation  stones  were  laid  by  many  such  bands 
as  this  one,  there  in  the  wilderness — the  church  which 
has  mothers  where  others  have  church  fathers — over 
took  these  two  pioneers  upon  the  path  of  progressive 
thought,  and  absorbed  them  into  itself. 

Long  before  that  day,  there  had  come  happy  news  to 
them  from  over  seas  of  one  who  believed,  and  no  doubt 


368  MISTRESS  JOY 

truly,  that  the  knowing  of  them  both  had  made  him  a 
better  and  in  the  end,  therefore,  a  happier  man. 

Aaron  Burr's  arrest  for  treason  followed  a  later  con 
spiracy.  And  she  who  had  loved  him?  A  quaint, 
little-read  old  history  of  that  time  tells  us  that  during 
his  latest  visit  to  the  "Half-way  House,"  finding  the 
maiden  purity  of  the  girl  whom  he  undoubtedly  loved 
invincible,  he  proposed  marriage.  Nor  did  he  give  her 
up  until,  a  fugitive  from  the  government  he  had  de 
spised,  he  wrote  from  abroad  to  release  her. 

His  after  story  is  well  known.  As  to  hers,  we  read 
upon  the  yellowed  page  that  the  hotel  in  which  she  lay, 
when  in  after  time  she  visited  Havana,  was  mobbed 
by  those  desiring  to  behold  such  famous  beauty,  and 
that  the  crowd  could  not  be  dispersed  till  she  had  gra 
ciously  greeted  them  from  an  upper  balcony. 

After  that,  we  are  told  that  "she  married  a  very 
worthy  gentleman  of  Savannah,  a  man  of  substance 
and  family."  And  then,  no  more,  for  the  happy  have 
no  history. 

The  descendants  of  the  house  of  Valentine — children 
of  Luis  and  of  younger  brothers,  and  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  Madeleine  and  Ausite,  who  did  not,  of 
course,  bear  the  name  of  Valentine — still  form  a 
mighty  clan  in  the  vieu  carre. 

Neville  entered  the  priesthood  in  the  flower  of  his 
youth.  His  attachment  to  Joyce  Valentine  was  un 
broken  to  the  day  of  his  death.  A  poet,  he  apotheo 
sized  that  boyish  passion  and  carried  it,  a  thing  divine, 
into  the  life  of  a  Catholic  priest.  Passed  through  the 
alembic  of  his  crystal  soul,  the  love  of  woman  became 
an  active  principle  for  good. 

He  died,  a  very  old  man,  during  the  yellow-fever 
epidemic  of  1854.  A  tablet  in  the  cathedral  records 
the  good  deeds  of  his  many  and  blessed  years. 

The  idea  for  which  Father  Tobias  labored  has  waxed 


MISTRESS  JOY  369 

and  grown.  The  broader  acceptance  of  it,  for  which 
his  son  and  daughter  strove,  has  become  to-day  the 
thing  itself. 

Two  such  beings  as  Joyce  Valentine  and  David 
Batchelor  could  not  pursue  mere  personal  happiness. 
Both  were,  along  different  lines,  reaching  forward  for 
the  common  weal.  And  both  found  not  only  the  indi 
vidual  bliss  we  all  crave,  but  that  which  one  of  earth's 
wisest  has  called  "a  higher  than  happiness,  which  is 
blessedness." 


\ 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


3  1970  00278  6397 


A     000  567  284     5 


